


Mutually Assured Destruction

by kittening



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, i'll add more tags as more characters appear :-), it's not exactly dystopian but things aren't going very well :/
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 23:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20608778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittening/pseuds/kittening
Summary: Months after the beginning of World War 3, the world's nations are doing their best to recover. Some are missing, some are dead, some are changed forever. Some have become power-hungry dictators (again), and some are doing everything they can to fight back.





	1. Chapter 1

Despite the confusion following the beginning of the war, the events preceding it were quite simple. Its effects, on the other hand, were complex and catastrophic, and that led to a number of people not understanding just what was happening to them.

What happened was this:

      1. A North Korean bomb detonated on an uninhabited island off the coast of Japan.

      2. The United States in turn obliterated the majority of North Korea.

      3. China and Russia both bombed the United States; Washington D.C and most of the east coast, respectively.

      4. Alright, it does get a little complicated here. Suffice it to say that everyone got involved at this point, although none of them were happy about it. No one made it out unharmed, either.

      5. The main conflict ended with the entirety of North Korea and Japan bombed into nonexistence, while China, Russia, and the United States were left with damage too great to continue bombing each other, at least temporarily.

What happened afterwards could not be described as 'simple' by anyone. The world was changed; it was shocked into silence. Then it went wild. The most powerful country in the world, the United States, was left without a government, and no one could predict what China and Russia would do next.

Months passed. Despite the chaos, life resumed. It seemed the war had ended in an uneasy stalemate, every participant unwilling to fight on.

This was the new world.

~

_ Dear Arthur, _

_ I'm sorry to tell you this, as I know the two of you were close (are? I don't know anymore), closer than you and I anyway, but I thought I should let you know that I've decided my brother won't be attending meetings from now on. You must be aware it's been difficult for him. Until now I've let him function on his own for the most part; his judgment was still intact, but now I think he's... too far gone. Don't get the wrong idea--his health isn't too bad. Other than the wheelchair, he's still going strong. If I know him at all, I know that he won't give up so easily. So... I thought I should let you know._

_ God, I'm not sure whether to even give this to you. Is this the right thing to do? Do I need to tell you? I'm not sure._

_ Can you let the others know about this? I've got some things to take care of back here, so I can't make it to the next few meetings either, but I'll be back soon enough._

_ I hope all's well with you. It's kind of crazy how many people have disappearing lately, right? I'm not sure what to think about Italy. _

_ Oh. I've been trying to get a hold of Cuba. Tell Francis to get in touch with me, too. I haven't gotten the details on what happened, but I heard he's with you._

_ I've got some intel on Antonio. It might be something you've already heard; talk to me when you can._

_ Stay strong, England._

_Matthew Williams_

_P. S. He's been asking to see you. I wasn't sure what to say._

“So, where should we go today?” Matthew asked. His voice was gray, blurred around the edges. Afred smiled back, oblivious to everything at this point. He was a sweet kid.

“I haven't been to Hawaii in a while. We should go together, Mattie! You and me, and England, and that other guy.”

Matthew ignored America's 'other guy' comment and focused on the other, slightly more distressing slip of sanity. He pushed the wheelchair in small bursts of motion, focusing more intently on the correct words to vocalize his thoughts than his stumbling pushes. There was no dancing around topics with Alfred, though, and there never had been, so he hardened his chest and said it.

“Nah, we can't do that, Alfie.”

There was a pause, where the air felt full, heavy, but empty, silent, and Matthew had the time to take in the broken sidewalk's cracks and the clouds rustling the light washing down on the echoing silence of the Ontario street. Houses stood somewhat like they used to--not much had happened here--but people were scared, and so they'd packed their things and left. A lot of them had headed further inland, figuring that they'd be safer there. They were right—however, it didn't take long for them to run out of supplies, and the trade routes were hardly operational anymore, meaning they were dealing with a bout of hunger that neither Matthew nor his government could fix.

Matthew took a long, long drag on his cigarette.

“Why not?” America finally asked. His voice was raw--not particularly emotional, but empty, like a child's. “Not allowed?”

“It's not that. There are no planes to fly us.”

“Oh.”

America wandered into the void of his thoughts. Canada was relieved that his brother didn't offer to fly them himself—if it were the old days, he absolutely would have. Matthew shielded his eyes to look up at the sky. Up above the bottom layer of baby blue, there was a grayish tinge of ash, dust waiting to settle, blown up from the south.

“So, how about New Mexico? They found any more UFOs? That'd be fun.”

“Uh.” Matthew frowned to himself, and for a brief moment he wished his brother weren't with him. Goddammit, he didn't want to say these things. He wanted to walk through his deserted town and hum to himself and breathe the sharp-tasting air and just feel fucking sorry for himself. “Well, first of all, I'm hardly up for a road trip.”

“So that's a no?”

Canada sighed. “That's a no.”

“Okay. Maybe another time. Your country is alright, but I kind of want to go home.”

“Um.” Canada didn't want to say it, but he wasn't planning on sending America home any time soon. His country was collapsing in on itself—the rural areas were starving while the urban ones that hadn't been blown apart were dealing with riots, protests, and frequent but short-lived insurgencies. His brother was in no state to deal with all of that. Canada didn't love the way his country was dealing with the situation, but at least it wasn't devolving into violence. For the most part.

Matthew had tried to explain all of this to Alfred, but he always seemed to forget, or else he hadn't understood in the first place.

“Yeah,” Canada said. “Another time.”

“Okay. Good. Great. They really need someone to whip 'em into shape down there.”

Matthew closed his eyes and took a drag.

“Mattie, smoking isn't good for you.”

“Yeah, Alfie.” He flicked his ashes onto the ground. He knew that his brother was right; that the ash was slowly blackening his lungs, the same as the ash that hung in the sky worldwide. He decided he didn't want to think about it after all. “I know.”

~

Taiwan was fairly sure she shouldn't be alive. When the war had broken out, with China expending its entire arsenal on the rest of the world, she had figured that the government would take the opportunity to teach her a lesson. In times of war, any grudge was a reason to attack, and they had always loathed her desire for independence. She knew that. And she was prepared to die with her people. She hadn't tried to escape. She had waited for the bombs until she had allowed herself to accept that they weren't coming.

China never even visited her, never tried to explain why Japan North Korea were gone. She didn't necessarily want him to, but it was an expected gesture, something no one, as far as she knew, ever received. Vietnam told her goodbye, said it had been a good run, hadn't it? Mei got a kiss on the cheek and then Lien left, back to the mainland where she was fairly sure she was safe, resting by Thailand and Laos and China—and China wouldn't hurt Vietnam, maybe he wouldn't. Taiwan certainly hoped he wouldn't, although it was a dull sort of hope. Lien had enough troubles throughout history. She didn't need to worry about this, too.

Mei couldn't manage many finished thoughts these days. Crippling anxiety will do that to a nation. Whenever she walked outside, she expected a bomb to fall, expected a shrill whine and a black sky and she expected to hear screaming and then fade out and, then, whatever happened next.

The Philippines was a bit more sympathetic. Maria was angry, definitely, but she understood Taiwan's worry, and sent over little notes written in the best Mandarin she could manage. She assured Mei insistently that _no, you're China's little sister, he wouldn't hurt you_, which was not helpful because China seemed to have no problems with eliminating his other siblings.

Taiwan would just have to rely on the other nations to fix this—she'd already heard rumors of a rebellion—and she would hope that this all ended soon.

She spent every day trying to keep the peace among her people, who were painfully tense, just as nervous as she was.

Something was going to break soon. Something was going to happen.

If it ended with her death; so be it. If it ended with China's, even better.

~

Spain was a lovely place, and Antonio hated to leave it behind. When he left--and he might have just been going mad, like everyone else was--he felt something physical, and he could never get over the feeling he'd left something. He used to joke to himself, grant himself a closed-eyed smile and say that he'd always leave his heart in Spain. And that, sadly, was probably somewhere bordering on true.

This departure, he just took a long, slow drag on his cigarette and pulled down the blinds on his window, waiting for the haphazard take-off procedure to be over so he could get a move on. Planes had always given him a little shivery feeling, but before, it had been sheer thrill, and the morbid knowledge that if the plane went down, he'd be okay, even if he was trapped among the corpses, until he got himself out and away and was granted a sympathetic hug from Romano. It had never been an entirely pleasant procedure, flying; now he was worried about being arrested. He was not supposed to be on a plane. No one was supposed to be on a plane.

And yet, here he was.

He was actually worried about being arrested. It was the one situation in which being immortal was actually a downside. Eventually, after a decade or two, the guards would realize he still had the same fresh skin from so long ago. Antonio didn't even consider the thought of Lovino risking his own ass to come get him out, either. He might have relied on that some time ago; although it would most likely have been Jan, or probably Anouk or João back then. Romano would have stayed at home and pretended he wasn't worried, and broken things for Antonio to clean up. Ah, well. Who'd have thought Spain would miss his laziness, his uncaring act? It had been cute, honestly. Lovino was not cute anymore.

After a few minutes of losing himself in his thoughts, he hollered up the aisle-way with rapid-fire Spanish, knowing only the Mexican flight attendant girl would understand him and the others would be annoyed, even without knowing what his words meant.

“Shut the fuck up!” The girl screamed at him. “You want to get yourself stuck in jail forever? Stupid jackass with your prissy accent. We're doing the best we can. You wanna try flying an illegal plane without any radios or signals or shit, while also fucking with the systems to stay under the radar in the airways?”

He responded that no, he didn't particularly want to try that--if only she knew what forever was--and took another drag before tilting his head back and blowing the smoke all the way into the air, swirling it out, because no one else was back there and no one cared.

The Mexican girl came back later and told him her name was Emilia, and he was supposed to feel sorry for her because she didn't have anywhere to go and her country was burning and she was heading back there to her dead mother and father and little brother, so he kissed her like she wanted and pretended he cared about her story or her life or her dead baby brother.

~

Hungary was a little too stubborn for her own good--Roderich always said so, and Gilbert said it was unattractive, but fuck him--and that was how she ended up obsessively writing the same letter with a different name on the top, to every nation she knew was still standing, minus America, France, and a few others she knew of that would be kicking the bucket any day now. Austria stood next to her, watching with some sort of sadness behind his glasses, and his hand wanted to sit on her shoulder but only hovered.

“Erzsébet, dear, I'm going to be honest here--you know he's dead.”

Erzsébet hesitated for the just the tiniest amount of time, just enough for the tip of her pen to make a tiny, sharp hole in her paper, before she clicked her lips off her teeth and continued writing. “You _think _so. Indulge me--tell me when you truly know.”

Austria sighed. He was getting tired of this. They weren't even an alliance anymore, so he didn't have to stick around. He was just being a dutiful and loyal ex-husband, and honestly, it was gloomy to see Hungary obsessing over Prussia. She was supposed to hate him, despise him for what he'd done to all of them--he was a jackass, after all--but then, what was Roderich to her anymore?

“I understand that you want him to be alive--I do too, believe me--but Erzsébet, he has been missing for many months, and with nowhere to go...”

Hungary had the sudden urge to hit Roderich with her frying pan. God, where was it? She always kept it near her. Had Austria taken it last time she threatened? Bastard. That thing was like a safety blanket lately. A safety blanket that could break someone's neck when she was trying.

“... You know he was only hanging around because of his and Ludwig's agreement. When the German government announced its intentions to remain neutral, he left, and he can't have had much nationalism going on then to keep him going--God only knows how he's been doing that all this time--and, unfortunately, he has almost certainly died.”

“Mr. Austria, with all due respect, shut up.”

“Hungary--”

“Prussia is alive!” Her words came out a little closer to a scream than she'd intended, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “Damn it all, he's alive, Roderich. He's alive. I know it.”

“But what if he isn't?”

Hungary took a deep, shaking breath down to her core, where she knew in some part of her, she was terrified that Gilbert had died the minute he had defected from Germany. He was strong, yes, but some things were beyond that. He was still just a nation, and though they were great, they were not everlasting as some pretended. They all knew that, inside. He knew that most of all. He'd told her, not able to meet her eyes as they sat outside, him in his outdated uniform and her in her cotton dress, that he was terrified. She hadn't known how to respond; she'd found it vaguely funny, mostly sad. There was nothing she could tell him.

“Then I'll simply have to make Germany pay me back for abandoning his brother.”

“Well, I disagree that he is responsible for his brother's actions, but anyway, no one has been able to reach him. He is hiding himself well. What exactly do you plan to do?”

“I'll smack him with my skillet, I'll take his head cleanly off, and I'll watch it roll.”

_Dear England~_

_ I sincerely hope that you are holding up well. I'm aware we'll be meeting fairly soon, however, there is something I wish to ask you._

_ You may know that Prussia and I have had a complicated past. Now he has been declared missing, and I would greatly like to locate him._

_ If you have any information, please write._

_ If not, do not bother responding._

_ I'll see you shortly._

    * _Erzsébet Héderv__á__ry, Hungary_

~

Liechtenstein wondered why she'd never realized how pretty the grass was. It looked like a very pretty shade of golden emerald, just lovely, really. It was a pleasant thought by nature, except that the only reason she was musing about the grass was that she was being held by her ankles a foot above ground and trying not to focus on how she was starting to want to vomit.

“Erika, you have to try!” She bounced a little, and a whimper escaped her lips. She'd been hanging peacefully, trying to ignore the pulsing starting to get heavier in her head, but Vash wanted something--what was it? He was holding her up, and trying to pretend he wasn't struggling a bit, and this was supposed to be part of her training, but Liechtenstein had been thinking she really didn't care for this part. She tried to hold in a cough.

“For--ah, Erika, this isn't that hard, I swear. Just try to get yourself down.” Switzerland wanted nothing more than to let her down, but he was stubborn, far too stubborn, and he'd told himself he was going to do this--for Erika's sake--so he was going to try... just a little longer.

“I will land on my head,” his little sister informed him quietly, “and it will hurt.”

Switzerland wasn't sure what to say to that. He didn't want to hurt her--of course not-- but her training _needed _to be like this. She was just a little girl--she wasn't supposed to be part of it--goddammit, why did this have to start in Europe again? Couldn't they all just get along?

“Liechtenstein, I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't necessary. People aren't going to go easy on you because you're small. They'll be _worse _because of that. Just... try to kick free. Please.” He tried to loosen his grip on her ankles, and he suddenly felt horrible about this whole thing, holding up his little sister upside-down in a field for reasons she didn't seem to understand.

Lichtenstein wasn't listening, but to the ringing in her head. “Brother... it hurts...”

He tried to ignore her--he tried to be tough--but he pulled her into his arms and set her down gently.

They could try again later.

~

Romania wore a scarf wrapped loosely around his head, and he had long since discarded his uniform, opting for civilian clothing. He needed to blend in, if not for him—and his immense guilt over leaving his country behind did make it difficult to worry about himself—then he had to maintain their anonymity for Moldova's sake. The boy was sleeping on his shoulder, his own scarf wrapped tightly so it wouldn't fall off. When this all started, Andrei had left for Chisinau immediately. Moldova was bordered in large part by Ukraine—a perilous position with a power-mad Russia on the move. Romania knew that his little brother wouldn't know what to do—and in all honesty, neither did Andrei, which was why they were tucked into the corner of a car on the international train to Sofia.

Bulgaria wasn't exactly useful in times of crisis—he was a little nervous, a trait shared among most of Eastern Europe—but he was a good friend. At least the best one Romania had at the moment. And with the Balkans already at each other's throats, Greece missing in action, and Hungary already in the midst of scheming to rebel, Andrei wanted someone he could count on.

The train normally took eleven and a half hours to reach Sofia—Romania had taken it a few times previously, when he wanted to visit but there were no funds for a plane. It took longer this time; he wasn't sure why. It seemed everything, in fact, was slowing down. It was early evening when he arrived. He kept his head low as he left the train. He hadn't brought anything with him, and it only now occurred to him that that was suspicious.

Nicolae had been asleep for hours, and Andrei was careful not to disturb him as he left the station. He wondered suddenly if he should have called beforehand. Or was that a bad idea, to give away his plans, even to his best friend? He couldn't be sure of anything. It was possible Bulgaria wasn't home; wasn't even in the country.

His thoughts were interrupted as someone caught his elbow and said his name in a low, tentative voice.

Romania turned around to find Bulgaria staring at him, startled.

“Kristian,” Romania said. He shouldn't have been surprised that the man could see through his disguise—they'd known each other for centuries—but after the shock wore off, he was oddly pleased. It was strange, the things he noticed during the end of the world.

Bulgaria glanced to Moldova, then back to Romania. “I wasn't expecting you. Did you tell me and I missed it, or is this a surprise?”

“A surprise, of course. Is this a bad time? Were you going to catch a train?”

“Well,” Kristian said, looking still slightly flustered. “I was actually going to look for you. I couldn't get a hold of you, and I knew you would be worrying about Nicolae...”

Romania gave a tight smile. “Good timing, then.”

“Quite.” Bulgaria paused. “Andrei, what are you running from? Russia can't be after you so soon?”

Romania adjusted his grip on Moldova, holding the boy tighter. “He will be soon. He will get bored of playing with the others, whether he kills them or whatever else. You know how he is. Sentimental.”

“That's one word for it.” Kristian glanced up and down the street. He did that often, Romania noticed—he was even more on edge than usual. Of course there weren't many civilians out anymore; no one was paying attention to them. Bulgaria blurted out, “Why did you come? Not that you aren't welcome, but...”

“I think we will have to run,” Romania said. “And I hoped you would want to come with me.”

Bulgaria stared at him. Romania swallowed, feeling the aching tension in his jaw. Moldova nuzzled his shoulder in his sleep—he seemed the perfect image of an innocent child; it would never occur to an observer that he had been leading his own country mostly successfully for decades.

Of course, he wasn't doing that anymore. He likely never would again.

“I trust your judgment,” Kristian said lightly. “You're right. Russia won't ignore us forever. But where would we go?”

“I haven't thought everything through yet. Surely you've considered it, that you may have to leave.”

“Naturally,” Bulgaria muttered. He shook his head; it seemed he hated to accept the idea. “We should talk privately. Come with me; let's go home.”

“Is it safe?” Andrei asked immediately, thinking of Nicolae.

Bulgaria paused. A moment later, Romania realized the gravity of what he had said. He was suggesting that Kristian's own home, in the heart of his country, might be compromised. That the war had already poisoned his friend's homeland.

What a bitter thing to say. Bulgaria turned to him, his mouth set in a grim line, and said nothing. Romania understood.

~

For a while, after the war started, nations were officially confined to their country's borders. The order came from the higher-ups, the to-be New Powers and neutral world leaders. They supposed it would keep the people safe--it didn't, but no one chose to dwell on that, because most of them ignored the rule from the beginning anyway, and those that didn't regretted it later on. This applied to nations as well. Switzerland brought Liechtenstein to his place, leaving her people to fend for themselves. They agreed she'd go back, but they kept forgetting to send her home after the bombs began to drop in Western Europe. Hungary visited Austria frequently, and although no one knew what they were discussing, they were too engrossed in their own business to question it. Finland refused to leave Sealand on his own, not when he was at such a high risk in the ocean so he'd jacked a plane, and there was nothing his boss could do.

Norway thought that was a nice sentiment--Finland had balls, no matter what Sweden seemed to think--but he wasn't a fan of huge dramatic ordeals, so he let the initial panic settle down, and then he had a battle-high Finland take him over to Iceland. Timo said he was brave. Norway supposed he'd know.

“Flying's dangerous right now,” Finland said, and if the smile on his face didn't match his words, the gun strapped to his back did. “No one expects you to go, you know. I could check him out myself.”

Lukas said no. The shorter blonde was only going because he'd asked, and he wasn't one to let someone else go and do something stupid on his account. If their plane got shot down by Russian extremists with violent ideals, so be it. They wouldn't die anyway, not unless Russia himself did the job. And why would Russia be that far up the ocean?

Finland got scary when he was excited--not happily excited, but when adrenaline was rushing through him, taking over his body. When he was that kind of excited, he didn't come down for weeks, months. During World War 2, he'd been that excited the whole time, although that wasn't an event any of them particularly wanted to remember. Now, Finland seemed to be itching to get flying, get another rush. Norway didn't know how to speak to him like this, and he was quiet while they took off.

During the flight, Timo had his gun resting by his side, and kept absently reaching over to touch it just briefly. Norway pretended he didn't notice.

“Just because Russia wants the land doesn't mean anything's happened,” Finland said eventually.

Lukas startled. He'd been letting his thoughts blur together, letting them become unintelligible. It was better than worrying about Emil, and then Mathias, and then just about everyone. Right--Iceland. Russia. That bastard. “It can't be a good thing.”

“No, but--think of Prussia. He doesn't have a country to call his own; hasn't for years. And he's still here.”

Finland obviously hadn't heard the news, and Lukas tilted his head further towards the window. “Hungary said that Prussia is missing.”

Finland didn't have anything to say to that.

They arrived in the evening, and Finland only stayed long enough to shake Norway's hand a bit too violently before heading off again. He didn't want to be caught with a plane--that would bring bad things, especially if anyone identified it with the one that went missing from a Finnish flight company.

Lukas knew the route to Iceland's house far too well. He even had a key. Too bad he was planning on relocating his little brother. He'd have to get a new key; they both would. He let himself in and announced from the foyer like he was coming home from work, “Ice, it's Norge.”

“Shit. Go away.”

That came from another room. Iceland's house was small, and Norway followed the voice easily. The house was nice, actually. There were pictures and paintings all over the place, and it was cluttered, but neat enough to get around. Ice's puffin was nowhere to be seen, but then, that was for the better. Norway quickly found Iceland in the living room and stilled, staring for a moment.

“If you're staring, fuck off.”

Iceland was stuck on his back, pinned underneath a heavy cushioned chair in the living room. Norway wasn't sure how to react. Was this funny, or concerning, or just pathetic? How had it even happened?

“Help me, jackass.”

Lukas wondered briefly when Iceland had started cursing so much. “Can I ask why you're stuck under a chair first?”

“No.”

Norway went over to lift the chair. “It's not that heavy. How long were you planning on lying there?”

Iceland was silent, avoiding his older brother's eyes as he stared resolutely at the ceiling. Lukas heaved the chair back onto its legs, sending an echoing slap of wood on wood through the room. Emil waited for a moment before slowly pushing himself to sit up and starting to rub at his calves. Norway watched on, still unsure what to make of the situation. After a moment, Iceland paused, aware of his lingering stare.

“I was trying to move my chair, okay?” the younger nation muttered. “It fell on me.”

Norway tried not to find it amusing. “Why couldn't you just move it? One of your arms was free.”

Then Iceland gave Norway a look, and his eyes were tearing up, and Lukas fell still, the hint of a smile draining off his face.

“Oh, Emil.”

Norway got the younger nation to bed and sat next to him, fully expecting to be snapped at and nudged away. But Emil ignored his presence and instead focused on pulling the covers exactly right over himself. He was having trouble with his motor skills--like he was back to being the baby Norway remembered. Back then Lukas hadn't been particularly fond of him, not even realizing they were related. Now all he could see was his little brother.

“I didn't expect it from Russia,” Iceland muttered, always muttering, smoothing over the covers yet again. “I thought he was just helping me to be nice. It's _Russia_, though, so I'm to blame for that train of thought. I guess he was scoping out the area. Can't trust anyone anymore.”

And Norway wanted to disagree, but everything Iceland had said was close enough to true, so he just moved further onto the bed and lay down next to the younger nation.

“What are you doing.”

Lukas closed his eyes. “I'm staying here for a little while. Timo said he'd watch over my country while I visited you.”

“That's not what I was asking and you know it.”

Norway breathed out slowly. “You're sick, Emil.”

There was silence for a moment, and Iceland shifted before speaking. “So? I don't need your help.”

There was another silence where both of them distinctly remembered the incident with the chair. Norway shifted closer to Iceland, and the younger nation tensed but didn't protest as Norway pressed the back of his hand across Iceland's forehead.

“You're cold,” Norway said.

“My name is Iceland. It's a stupid name, and me and Greenland were completely fucking with people about it, but still. It's my name. I'm supposed to be cold.”

Not this cold, Norway didn't say. He was afraid Iceland was already dying. He rarely touched people, but he knew how it was supposed to feel. A person was supposed to be warm. Iceland felt sickly and lukewarm and wrong and even if his name was fucking 'Iceland,' this was no time to be joking around. Norway could have said all this. What he opted to say was, “Your name is Emil.”

Iceland--Emil--relaxed slightly, yawning. “I suppose it is, now.”

That wasn't what Norway had meant--he'd meant in general, Iceland had a human name, too--but it worked for the situation. Iceland was a Russian territory now, not his own country.

That was why he was dying, after all.

  
~

“All these countries are so mean,” Russia commented, looking over the paperwork on his desk with defeated sighs. “They all hate me. You would never hate me, though. You all are my best friends. I am so lucky to have you, yes?”

He looked up, and glassy violet eyes made three of the five nations in his presence flinch. One of the other two, an uncomfortable blonde with an attitude problem and questionable loyalty, widened his eyes and glanced away, unable to meet Ivan's eyes. The fifth smoothed her skirt mindlessly and tried to see her older brother the way she used to, with nothing but love, unconditional love. She was trying to find that old reserve of love that she'd always had in her mind, her heart--it was taking a while, but she could sense it, feel it. She knew she could love him, if only she didn't have to deal with him all the time.

“Yes, brother,” Belarus said, speaking for the others, who rarely spoke a word anymore, even when Russia wasn't hanging around and forcing them to share company. They were scared, terrified, and all four of them were afraid of what the others in the group were thinking. They were afraid their countries would be attacked while they were with Russia, and it was an understandable worry, even if Ivan was protective of them. Luckily for Natalya, she was in alliance with him, and therefor her country was perfectly safe. He would not attack her, and no one else would dare to, either, because emotion had nothing to do with this war--they all hated her and spat when they thought of her name, but there was nothing they could do. Even if she didn't want him to, Russia would make any would-be attackers pay dearly.

Ivan smiled at her. “I enjoy these times, with all of us together.”

“I don't,” Poland said under his breath, paling slightly when he realized he'd spoken aloud. His leg started vibrating as he sat in his carved wooden chair and looked quickly around Russia's office, at the shoddy certificates lining the wall, bullshit titles Russia seemed to be proud of, like he needed confirmation he was in charge of the world. At the window that used to be open but had been barred off because Estonia and Latvia kept staring out of it all the time. At the carpet that must have gotten cleaned every day because Ivan always tracked in mud but it was never dirty. At Estonia and Lithuania and Latvia and even Belarus, at everything but Russia. Tap tap tap tap tap.

Ivan didn't seem to hear him. “I especially enjoy having my old friends here. Right, Latvia? It's good to have the 'gang' back, yes?”

Latvia shrank back. “Uh--yes, sir, although Miss Ukraine isn't here.”

Natalya closed her eyes quickly. The child was not going to last long.

“Ah, yes, she is not here,” Ivan agreed. “She is dead, Latvia. Did you not know that? I thought you were aware.”

Belarus heard a panicked squeak from the boy next to her. “Oh, no, sir, I mean yes, I knew.”

“Good.” There was silence, then humming. Belarus opened her eyes again, and Russia was looking down at his papers, although she knew he wasn't processing them. He was probably thinking about his big sister.

Good, Belarus thought, with a raise of her chin. He needed to remember what he'd done.

She heard whispering, and when she glanced over, Poland had his eyes closed, tears collecting at the corners of them, and Lithuania and Latvia were talking to him quietly on either side. Toris was holding the blond's hand in both of his, knuckles white. Natalya scooted her chair away and waited for Russia to notice. He didn't. Then again, he probably did.

“Liet,” Poland mumbled, his voice choked, and he said something else muffled by hands pressing over his mouth. Russia hummed to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! I'm honestly not sure how many people will read this (the fandom was much stronger when I first started writing this years ago...) but if you've made it this far then thank you so much! I was going through my files when I found ~13,000 words of this story and I decided it didn't deserve to be abandoned. I'm working on editing what I have and writing some more scenes, so I should be able to update pretty soon.  
Please leave a comment if you'd like me to continue updating! Otherwise I can't promise I'll finish it... there's a ways to go.  
Thanks again for reading :)


	2. Chapter 2

Germany used to think all he needed in life was a good gun. He'd been solitary--someone like him didn't make many friends--and he'd always watched Prussia hanging around Austria and Hungary, or messing around with Spain and France, with something close to envy pulsing in his chest, although he eventually trained himself not to feel so much. He dulled down his emotions, punishing himself within his mind every time he slipped up. Ludwig got to the point, the perfect point, where all he really needed was his weapon and he could do anything. He could be emotionless. He could kill without mercy, without so much as a blink. He could convince himself of things that didn't make sense, he could bring himself to hate other people, to believe blindly in his own country's propaganda. Then during the war, even his allies left him—Italy surrendered, which seemed to Ludwig like a betrayal.

He was in a dark place for a while.

Things improved after the war was over. His country settled down; other nations began to forgive him. He started seeing things differently--not always better, but differently. He had friends. Japan was even more reserved than him, but he could be gentle, and he knew how to handle other people, even Germany and his perpetual awkwarness. Italy was an explosion of emotion; he was hard to understand at first, but strangely fascinating because of that. Italy was also strangely fond of Ludwig, overly so. Germany needed that. He needed someone to say it over and over, drill it into his head that he was appreciated, that someone wanted to be around him. Otherwise, he wouldn't believe it.

For a while, Germany was happy.

Then came the new war.

Ludwig hadn't been aware that anything was going on. He was still rather secluded, and he'd been out for a run when it happened. He'd had a day alone, not thinking about anything in particular, and when he got home, he had four voicemails on his phone, one from Prussia and three from Italy. He sat down, expecting Prussia's to be obnoxious--which it was-- and Italy's to be about something stupid--which they weren't.

_“Hey, West, something big has happened. I know you're such an old-fashioned dumbass you won't have heard about it yet. America was bombed by Russia and China. Look it up.”_

_ “Germany! Germany, I was so scared. People are saying there's going to be a third world war! Call me, okay?”_

_ “Hey, Germany... you haven't answered yet. I hope you aren't angry with me. I'm sorry about whatever it was, just in case...”_

_ “Ludwig, I'm so sorry... I'm so scared... ” _The message broke off into sobs there, and after a while, the young man had hung up.

Germany put his head into his hands.

He didn't know how to deal with Feliciano sometimes. He got so carried away, so emotional, and he was such a crybaby, but he could be strong when he wanted to be. He was like those paintings from his country that he was so proud of--messy, colorful, more complex the more you looked. And Ludwig was used to life being neatly divided into black and white, right and wrong; he didn't have to think that way, because what he was doing was right, and the enemy was wrong.

He could not figure out Feliciano, and sometimes that infuriated him. There was no dividing Feliciano into right and wrong. It was all a jumbled mess of feelings, and Ludwig had never been good at those.

Germany needed to find out what exactly was going on. He didn't want to call Italy, not yet. He didn't want to hear the breaks in his voice and to have to be comforting. When Feliciano needed something, Ludwig could never find it in himself to deny him, and he needed to focus at the moment. A third world war was more important than his little Italian friend. He reminded himself of that. Besides, Italy had Romano to look after him. Romano was not exactly a doting older brother, but he was better than nothing.

Germany kept telling himself he'd visit. His government was suddenly furiously busy, figuring out alliances and planning defense, before they ultimately went neutral.

And then the European wave hit.

He felt it that time. He woke up in the middle of the night screaming, feeling the lives of his people ripped away, feeling his land decimated, searing pain ripping through his body. He tried to be strong, tried to hold it in, but he couldn't keep this inside him, not this, and he screamed until he couldn't feel anything and he couldn't make a sound. He lay limp, waves of pain and horror washing over him until he felt numb again.

He discovered in the morning that he'd been bombed.

Russia had crippled much of Western Europe with one wave, a threat to warn them against interference in his affairs. Berlin was gone. Germany felt it in his chest.

“I am sorry about your capital, but I had to make a point, you see,” Russia said, not sounding particularly apologetic. He seemed pleased with himself, actually. Everything had turned out perfectly for him. He must have enjoyed the opportunity to prove his own strength and power; to crush those who stood in his way.

Germany didn't want to acknowledge Russia's words, strongly considering hanging up, but Ivan was not one to be ignored. He disregarded Germany's silence and continued. “I remember when you swore you would turn the world on a new axis. You remember as well.”

Germany swallowed, tense.

“You failed. I, however, succeeded. My allies and I won the war. And this time, I will win again. I have heard that your country plans to be neutral. That is lovely. Would you like to make this official so we have no unfortunate misunderstandings?”

Germany thought about it for a moment.

It was Russia's mistake to mention the Axis. Germany felt himself thinking back to that time, when everything was still so simple, when he and Japan and Italy were right, and when Russia and the Allies were wrong.

Russia was genuinely wrong this time. Ludwig was sure of it.

“I am sorry, Russia, but I will not make any statements to you. Do not contact me again.”

Russia frowned. “Germany, do not dismiss this so easily. I have a big plan for Europe, and I would hate for something to happen to your country because of misunderstanding. If you are truly neutral, then should be no problem declaring it, yes?”

It sounded so innocent coming from his lips, but Germany was filled with a sudden rage. This was all wrong.

Perhaps he couldn't be neutral after all.

“My final answer is no. Goodbye, Russia.”

“I can still consult your leaders. I was just asking you for politeness, but how do you know they will not comply with my so reasonable request?”

That was the thing, though. Germany felt his jaw tighten. The bastard saw this as a game, he knew. He thought he was winning.

“My leaders were in Berlin, which has suffered quite a calamity, if you weren't aware. They are no longer living, which means, for the time being, I have taken the liberty to speak for them. And, as I am in charge, I must ask you not to contact me or my people, or I will be forced to take matters into my own hands.”

Russia didn't have any clever way out of that one.

When Germany got around to checking up on the other nations, he discovered just exactly what Russia had done. What Russia had _known _he had done, and then asked Germany for his cooperation, for a vow not to go on the offensive.

Japan was gone, a void, an empty island where there used to be towers and music and highways and seafood and a short black-haired nation who'd enjoyed manga and cats but wasn't around to do that anymore. They didn't find his body. There was nothing left. But since Russia had sent the bombs himself, ordered them knowing full well what would happen, Honda Kiku was officially dead, struck down by another nation according to the shadowy protocol that governed the nations' lives.

And as Ludwig found out shortly after, Rome had been obliterated.

He called Feliciano, his entire body and mind going numb, because surely this wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening, this didn't make sense—Russia couldn't just _do _this—and a robotic voice politely informed him that the number he was calling was disconnected. Germany was motionless for a long moment, his mind gone blank. Then he called Romano.

“_What the fuck do you want?_” Romano shrieked at him. Germany kept the phone pressed to his ear as the other man descended into delirious, rapid-fire English and then Italian, his voice choking until he ran out of breath and just sobbed.

“Romano, I don't speak Italian,” Germany said quietly. “English, please.”

Lovino was silent, and Germany almost thought that he'd hung up.

“Why the fuck are you calling me,” Romano whispered. “Leave me alone.”

“Alone?” Germany felt something sink inside of him.

“_Yes_, alone. _Fuck off. _ Never call me again. Go _die_. Go get fucked by Russia and die. I hope he--”

“Romano--”

Romano screamed at him, and Germany could feel the entirety of the pain in his voice, but he couldn't hang up. He listened, and Romano fell silent.

There was a long, still moment.

“He loved you, you bastard,” Romano whispered.

_Click._

~

Spain's arrival in Naples was delayed. His plane was not, in the end, shot from the sky—but after the safe landing, it was surrounded by aggressive Italian officials before the passengers could even unbuckle their seatbelts. Antonio was unbothered; if he was in Italy, then there was no problem. He showed his identification and strode down the aisle, ignoring the stare of the Mexican girl Emilia, who watched him with red-rimmed eyes during the entire ordeal. He walked through the dusty earth of the field they'd landed in, heading south towards the city. It took him another several hours to reach Romano's villa, as it took a long while to reach an area serviced by taxis, and then none of the drivers wanted to take him for one reason or another.

When he finally let himself into the villa, he found Romano sitting at his coffee table with his head in his hands. A disorganized pile of paperwork lay in front of him, and the TV was set to the news, the volume low enough that the voices blurred into a stream of slurred consonants. For a moment Antonio was afraid that Lovino was crying, but in the end it seemed the man was simply exhausted from the paperwork. That was reasonable; it seemed important, and there was a lot of it.

“Romano,” Spain said quietly.

Romano flinched. He didn't spare Spain a glance, petulant already. “You're late.”

“I apologize.”

“I thought you left me.”

Spain winced. He had assumed that Romano felt like this, that he worried when Antonio left—but he didn't like to hear him say it out loud. He moved over to the sofa and set his bag beside Romano. When the man still refused to look at him, Antonio took Lovino's face in his hands and tilted his head up. He met Romano's wide, olive eyes calmly, and held the man still as he tried to turn away.

“I will never leave you, God willing,” Spain promised. “_Eres mi tesoro._” He hesitated, glancing away for a moment. There was an intensity in Romano's eyes, some burning sadness Spain had never encountered before. Or perhaps it was there before. Perhaps he had ignored it. He focused again on Lovino, feeling his own brows furrowing. There was something else in Romano's gaze, a reverence, as though he were staring up at something holy, hardly able to believe his eyes. Antonio swept his thumb gently against Romano's lower eyelid. “_Y __también_ _mi responsabilidad._”

Romano's expression changed in an instant. He scowled, jerking his head away. Spain lowered his hands. “Where did you go this time?”

“To Mexico.” Spain collapsed onto the sofa. “Rosita has been having problems with cartels; more than usual, anyway. They are feeling bold lately. Trying to ovetthrow the government and all.”

Lovino was quiet. “You fixed it?”

“Not completely. There will always be opportunists like that, of course.” He didn't answer Romano's actual question, wondering how exactly Spain had done it. Naturally, he and Rosa had killed dozens of men personally, if not hundreds. They had eliminated entire gangs. These were bad people; it could be excused, in Antonio's opinion, as his victims had been victimizing others. It was done to make Rosa's country safer; to help her hold onto a last, lingering bit of stability.

But Romano had always been uneasy about death. When he was a child, he took comfort in Spain's promises to protect him. Only when he grew older did he realize just what that protection had entailed.

“And what have you been doing?” Antonio asked, careful to keep his tone neutral. He wasn't sure whether Lovino was still searching for Feliciano. The man didn't like to talk about it, which suited Spain fine. One Italy brother was enough; he had no desire to be haunted by the ghost of the other.

“It's obvious, isn't it,” Romano muttered. “I have never done so much work in my life. I can't go to Rome until next week because they keep sending me bullshit paperwork.”

“Rome?” Spain repeated, frowning. “You never mentioned that.”

“I'm going alone. You can go on another peacekeeping mission or whatever you do. I am going to rebuild.”

“Perhaps I would like to rebuild as well.”

“Then come if you want to,” Romano snapped. “I thought you wouldn't want to, since you hate him so much.”

Spain couldn't help but laugh, but he stifled it when he caught Romano's sudden look of fury. “I apologize, Romano. Truly. I did not know you felt that way. Don't you remember, when you were a child and you complained so viciously that I surely preferred Feliciano?”

“That was true.”

“I am not with Feliciano now, am I?” Antonio drawled.

Romano eyed him suspiciously. “What's your point?”

“I prefer you, Romano, but that does not mean that I hate Feliciano. I believe you have misunderstood me. I did not want to search for him because I don't believe there is anything to find.”

“Shut up!” Romano snarled. “You don't know anything about it. No one even knows if he was in Rome.”

“And no one has heard from him since Rome was destroyed.”

Lovino stood abruptly from the sofa and stormed towards his bedroom. Spain sighed. He wasn't going to follow him, even if he suspected Romano might want him to. He really didn't like to talk about Veneziano. It was a very sad thing; he believed Germany must have been handling it even worse than Romano. Spain didn't actually know. He didn't talk with many nations anymore. He had lost contact with Francis and Gilbert months ago, and now Gilbert was missing, having certainly met the same fate as Feliciano. João, Jan, and Anouk were nearly impossible to get ahold of—Antonio was fairly sure they were involved in “peacekeeping” missions of their own, but they never told him anything either way. He mostly spoke with the Latin American countries these days, as he felt obligated to help with damage control.

He had lost all of his friends. It was no wonder he sometimes grew tired of Romano. He wasn't enough, but that was hardly his fault, either.

It was just a shame.

~

In Britain, in these times, it was expected that you were going to be a little too warm for comfort. It used to be pleasantly cool throughout the year, a bit too warm in the summer, but generally pleasant. England remembered those days, but now he tugged on the fraying sleeve of his tank top, slowly but surely tuning out the hot shivers protesting the warmth, and manned the corner of the brick wall, scouting for familiar faces while also making sure his charge didn't slip off. France couldn't hear Arthur calling of his name when he wandered away to smile at a pretty girl or boy, trying to lift their somber spirits with the twinkle in his eye that he could still conjure up when needed. He didn't hear and was usually too focused on being the embodiment of the word 'uplifting' to notice a small man with messy blonde hair, a black top, and a frown that never quite eased off his lips. Arthur was convinced he'd lost the man for good on a fairly regular basis. Francis wasn't even thinking as clearly anymore. A few days ago a girl he'd approached had slapped him, and he'd stumbled before toddling back to Arthur, who gave him a sad look, because that was all he could give him.

Today, something must have been wrong with him, because Francis was sporting one of England's old plain tops and a far-off look, and stayed against the wall. He was supposed to be watching for Matthew's arrival as well, but for the last week Arthur hadn't been snapping at him for slacking off. It wouldn't have done any good. He wasn't sure the man would understand anyway. Sometimes England thought he should scavenge something to write on so the man could write to him in his broken English, but in some part of him, he knew the way he casually brushed off the idea came from not wanting to hear France' inner thoughts. With the way he looked nowadays, constantly quiet, his face full of a sad calmness, it was doubtful that he anything pleasant to say.

England was so lost in his considerations that France had to gently nudge his forearm once, twice, and then gave him a harsh jab that made him stand straight up to his not-quite-tall stature.

“Christ, what is it?” he said, dusting himself off before remembering that he was a horrible bastard and that Francis was only touching him because he could not vocalize whatever thing he needed to express, which was probably terribly important and necessary to their survival.

Well, close enough. It was Canada.

The young man looked small, in an olive sweatshirt that was just overly large enough to be America's. He was drowning in the fabric, and he looked almost like he was melting--down-turned eyes and lips and a drag to his step. The ash-blond man glanced at the sky multiple times, and that was when Arthur noticed the young man beside him in the wheelchair, a stupid grin on his face.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered, and Francis squinted at his lips before turning to follow his gaze. His mouth opened slightly. “I was sincerely hoping he wasn't serious about the wheelchair.”

Canada glanced over, met his gaze for the briefest of moments, and stared off into the distance at the poisoned harbor. If he had any prior indication that Britain's water had not _always _been a murky shade of brown, he didn't express it. They'd agreed to act like strangers in public.

Arthur usually went the drug dealer route when meeting his associates, but a few of them had, in better spirits than he, initiated the conversation by loudly asking his price for an hour. It wouldn't have even been so bad if France weren't in tow, smiling obliviously at his old friend's smirk and innocently assuming they weren't talking about prostitution.

“Oi, kid.” England pushed himself off the wall, and did his best execution of a saunter. Matthew glanced around--was he talking to him?-- before settling wide violet eyes on him.

“Uh--are you Jack, sir?”

“That I am.” Jack the Englishman. How original. He slung his arm easily over Matthew's shoulder. Their hair brushed together, and judging by Canada's stiffness, he was extremely uncomfortable. That, or just nervous. That was perfectly natural; meeting like this was dangerous. “Just come this way, and we'll chat, alright?”

“Uh. Okay, sir.” He paused as England started to lead him away. “Um, I brought my friend, the one you were asking about.”

“Oh.” Arthur took a quick glance over his shoulder, and pretended he didn't feel a quick, sharp jab in his chest at the glazed look of America. He found himself staring too long, wanting to find something familiar. Something he could hold onto.

The man's light brown hair was neater than usual; obviously Matthew was taking good care of him, although even he couldn't keep a few strands from sticking straight up. It was all the same color now, the golden highlights faded out after months without sports or expeditions or random treks through his southern states looking to once again find one of those 'weather balloons' he'd been so infatuated with. Arthur found it terribly depressing that he could know exactly what Alfred had been doing without asking. With limited mobility, there was only so much he could reasonably get up to, because Canada had common sense and a limited amount of energy and wouldn't go on adventures in the middle of a war.

America wore his jacket. He'd never part with it, although he--probably Canada, actually--had turned it was inside out, probably to keep it under wraps, or at least not make a spectacle of the fact, that he was American. His people weren't legally allowed to leave North America, and there was no need to arouse more suspicion than necessary.

He hadn't lost weight, unlike the other nations Arthur had run into. In fact he looked big, too big to be stuck in that goddamned wheelchair, legs splayed out and that stupid grin on his face like a huge, dumb child. He didn't even seem to realize where he was, or who he was with. America's head swung his way, and he met Arthur's gaze and gave a cheery white smile. It was not familiar, not in any way.

England looked away.

“Yes, yes. Bring your friend.”

Matthew breathed out, and England could feel a slight tremor in the younger man's throat. It unnerved him, and he took his arm away as he waited for Matthew to wheel over America, and the four of them walked into the alley where there used to be streetlights, but someone had quickly taken care of that once the electric companies went private. He could hear his breath, and he could hear the others' breath, including Francis', which just made him sad because his exhales skirted around the edge of his husky, lilting voice that he never used anymore.

For once, it was quiet enough for England to actually hear himself think. It unsettled him.

~

Hong Kong arrived at Denmark's house in Copenhagen in the early evening. It was a nice place, a pale blue building on a crowded street, facing an empty canal. He'd gotten the address from Iceland a while ago, after promising to visit while Emil was staying with his 'uncle' for several weeks. Leon had never actually shown up—China threw a sudden fit about family bonding, and insisted that Hong Kong and Taiwan accompany him on an extremely tense vacation to Tibet.

Leon had never actually spoken to Denmark, but he didn't find him particularly intimidating—and that said a lot about the guy, considering he was a former Viking and all. Hong Kong felt perfectly calm as he knocked on Denmark's door, carrying just a backpack with a change of clothes and his passport. He hadn't spared much time before leaving. He figured China must have already been looking for him.

Denmark opened the door, looking surprisingly weary. He can't have been getting much good news, Hong Kong realized. He was a real nation and all. He was much more involved in all of this than Leon. Denmark ran a hand through his hair—less gravity-defying than Hong Kong remembered; he couldn't have had much time for hair care these days—and blinked.

“Hong Kong?” the man said.

“Yeah, hi,” Leon said, stifling the urge to bow. White people had no concept of respect anyway. “I'm alive.”

Denmark leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms. “Well, shit, you could have fooled me. No one's heard from you in... how long? When I found out about Japan...”

“No, yeah, _he's _dead. But China cares a lot less about me.”

“Hey, I'm sure that's not true,” Denmark said. He gave a small, crooked smile. “He probably wants to kill you next.”

“Yeah,” Hong Kong said. “Uh, so I know I didn't tell you I was coming or anything, but... uh, well, I wanted to go see Ice first, but I heard he's not doing so hot. No pun intended.”

Denmark's smirk faded. “You heard right. Did you need him for something?”

“Not him in particular. I kind of need a place to stay, but I'm avoiding my family for like, obvious reasons, and I can't get ahold of Angélique so he's kind of my only friend.”

“Uh-huh,” Mathias said. “And you thought of me next?”

Hong Kong shrugged. “I thought of Finland, actually. England is kind of my stepfather, so Sealand is kind of my stepbrother, and Sweden and Finland care a lot about Sealand, right? So I thought they might not mind if I came to stay with them. I know I'm not as young or like, as cute as Sealand...”

“Debatable,” Denmark said.

“Uh, yeah. So I kind of wanted to stay with them, but I couldn't catch a flight up there. Apparently there's been a bunch of planes hijacked? I'm not really sure. I didn't hear about any huge evil plans for your country, so I thought I'd just ask you if I could stay here. Just until, like...” Leon trailed off. Until what? He could probably never go back to China. Iceland was going to die; he couldn't move in with him. There was nowhere else to go. “Until China takes me out, I guess.”

“Wow, kid. No need to sound so depressed. You're right; the big man isn't interested in me, so you're probably safe here. I can help you out, at least for now.”

Hong Kong sighed in relief. “You're the best.”

“Eh, don't say that around the others if you want to be in their good graces.”

“Are they even around?”

“Well, not here. Timo and Peter are in Helsinki; Berwald's splitting time between there and Stockholm. I told him traveling like that's a pretty bad idea these days, but like he'd ever listen to me... and, uh, you probably know that Lukas is with Emil.”

“Nah, I haven't heard that much. I've been on my own.”

“Hey, so have I. Maybe this is a good thing. We could probably both use the company.”

“I can repay you in Chinese food,” Leon blurted. “I can cook the real thing.”

“Even better! Come on in, kid.” Mathias pulled the door wide open, revealing a small sitting room, looking as untidy as the man himself. Leon smiled, feeling genuine relief for the first time in months. He followed Denmark inside.

“What's your real name, anyway?” Mathias asked.

“Leon.”

Mathias blinked. “Did Arthur give you that name? It sounds pretty English.”

“I've got a Chinese name too, but I thought 'Siu Chun' might be hard for you to pronounce.”

Denmark laughed, a loud sound that startled Hong Kong. “Hey, you're right about that.”

~

China had been drunk when the war started, so he supposed it wasn't really his fault. Yes, he'd sided with Russia and approved the waves and let his brother be annihilated. However, he was drunk.

It had been a mistake to go out drinking with France. There wasn't much he could have done, though. The blonde nation showed up, informed him they'd be spending 'quality time' together, and it wasn't like China could refuse, because how rude would that be? It turned out that France had heard of baijiu and was going to implode if he didn't try some, so China took him out for the evening and drank far too much and let France leave with some androgynous brunette and headed home, where Russia had been calling him all day and eventually gave up. Yao frowned, set up his teapot, and settled down to run through all thirty-seven of his messages. His head was ringing, and he was reminded why he didn't drink baijiu, or much of anything alcoholic at all, really. Terrible, terrible.

Russia's accented English was hard to decipher through the haze and the cell service, and China wondered why everyone didn't just speak Mandarin. He picked up words like 'nuclear,' which was bad, and 'alliance,' which was good, and 'world power,' which was excellent. Then, he heard 'approval.' Approval for what? He was completely lost at the end of message thirty-seven, so he sighed at his bad luck and returned the nation's call.

Russia was positively gleeful that he'd called, and was more than happy to launch into a tirade explaining what the messages hadn't conveyed appropriately. Half the vocabulary slipped beyond China's understanding, and he sighed, wondering why Russia couldn't opt for a translator if he was going to be so insistent.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” China asked, rubbing at his temple.

“I am asking for your approval before I send the first wave to America,” Russia repeated pleasantly.

“Wave?” Were they talking about tsunamis here? Did Russia have that kind of technology—and did China not know about it until now? “What kind of wave?”

“Were you not listening?” Russia sounded slightly disappointed. “I told you all of the plan, Yao. I thought you were agreed. I have been in contact with your government, but I do not want to act without your agreement. It would not be diplomatic.”

“Oh.” China hadn't realized something so important was going on. If it required a plan, it probably was something he should really be sober to hear about. And if it was with Russia, it couldn't be good, but he supposed he'd just try to slide through the conversation and have it explained again in a few days. Big things always took time to process, and had to pass through several Chinese officials other than him; he had time to recover. “Oh, ah, yes. Sure. Waves.”

“So that is a yes? Approval?” Russia asked, his voice lighter.

“Ah...” he had such a terrible headache... “Go ahead, Russia. Do what you want.” _You always do._

“Wonderful, Yao. I will be in touch afterwards. I am so glad we could agree.” Russia hung up, and it wasn't until tomorrow morning that China heard the news and screamed because the world was ending and America was bombed and the entire world agreed that this was war, a war that somehow Russia had twisted into hinging on China's approval, and Russia showed up at his house for brunch with a pleased smile and a few flowers to commemorate their alliance.

“It was just a warning,” Russia shrugged. “America has gone too far. I hope he has learned his lesson.”

No one ever learns their lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! As always, thanks for reading. I appreciate comments or suggestions :)


	3. Chapter 3

Poland didn't like to think about the fact that it had happened again.

No, that wasn't it.

He'd let it happen again. He hadn't even put up much of a fight.

He was done being a punching bag, he'd told himself, and now he was stuck between Russia and a hard place (figuratively, of course, 'cause he was pretty sure Russia wasn't into that) and it had all happened too fast for him to take any action--not that that would have worked anyway, because Liet had tried to fight back, and he was still stuck sweating in those stupid chairs for an hour twice a week in Russia's manically-cleaned meeting room, same as any of the five of them.

And what was he supposed to say, anyway?

“Um, Ivan, I thought we had moved past you invading my country.”

Ukraine had tried to fight back--well, she'd protested, anyway--and she was dead, so maybe Feliks had done the right thing after all. Liet said he shouldn't feel bad, and Liet was smart and brave so maybe he was right. He knew how to say the right thing and when to shut up and let Feliks hug him way too tightly, anyway. That counted for something.

“You can't talk to him that way,” Belarus hissed at him, only it wasn't the kind of hissing he was used to. She was trying to be quiet, which she had never been good at. They were walking down a hallway of the estate, their footsteps echoing on the shining marble. They were alone, heading to the meeting room from their own rooms, which were tucked in a different wing than the others'. Tolys was jealous that Poland got to sleep so close to Natalya; Feliks himself was nervous. Belarus made for terrible company, although lately she was quieter and didn't break as many bones. Maybe she was trying to be friendly.

“Uh—what way?” He looked down at his shoes. Russia had taken his nice ones and given him dull brown boots. They were comfortable, and even if they were completely boring, they were safer to look at than a certain blonde girl at the moment.

“You can't just speak your mind. He gets offended.”

“Does he?” The bigger nation usually just acted oblivious, in Feliks' experience. Oh, I'm sorry, Poland, did I commit an act of war? Wow, my bad.

Feliks gritted his teeth. He needed to stop thinking about that.

“You didn't hear about what he did to Estonia the other day?”

“The metal pipe? I was kind of hoping Russia didn't actually have one.”

Belarus was quiet for a moment. “He does,” she said flatly.

Poland bit his lip. They were turning down the white-washed hallway towards the meeting room. He felt himself starting to tremble, and he tried to remind himself to brave it out. Remember the Armia Krajowa, the resistance? He'd been brave then, and even stuck it to Russia himself—at least until the Soviets shipped thousands of his freedom fighters to gulags and executed the leaders.

He _really _needed to stop thinking about that.

_I have something very important to discuss with you, Feliks._

This wasn't just another awkward meeting, though, and Poland knew it. Belarus knew, too, but she'd never say anything. She was just his escort so he didn't try to run; he knew that. Like there was anywhere he could go. The windows were nailed shut; the stairways were guarded by security guards that knew his face quite well. Russia loved having company. He didn't want to lose it anytime soon.

Belarus stopped by Russia's door. Her voice was low when she spoke. “I'll leave you to it, then.”

Her words were innocuous enough, but Feliks was suddenly afraid that she was really saying goodbye. He had a sudden, intense urge to reach out and grab her, to keep her standing there with him.

She walked away.

“Bela? Poland? Are you here?”

Poland flinched, turning towards the metal door. He was silent, trying to stop himself from trembling, and bit his lip as Russia opened the door. The man broke into a smile.

“Ah, Poland. You are on time. Wonderful. And Bela has already left? She seems busy these days. It makes me laugh. What could she be busy with?”

Feliks gave a feeble smile.

“Come, sit down. You look so pale, Poland. Am I not feeding you enough? You can tell me these things.”

“I'm doing good, like always, Ivan,” Poland said. Truthfully, Russian food didn't hold a candle to Polish food, and Feliks didn't have much of an appetite anyway, but he wasn't stupid enough to bring any of that up. He was pushing his luck already by calling Russia 'Ivan'. The man didn't like to acknowledge that he was, in fact, a man, along with a nation. He liked to seem impartial.

“Good, then. Do sit. I told you I have something very important to discuss with you. I think it will make you not so happy.”

“Okay,” Feliks said. He didn't think Russia had ever done anything that made him happy. Had he ever made anyone happy? Well, America had always seemed to enjoy their rivalry, but that was just kind of perverted. Poland sat gingerly in his chair across from Ivan.

“I will say this simply,” Russia said. “I have decided to expand my territory to include Poland. Your country will be under my control. I apologize if this is unsatisfactory to you, but the decision has been made.”

“You want to--” Feliks broke off. “What?”

“I am not just targeting you; do not worry of that. I am planning to use Belarus' land as well, and I am also looking into the Baltic states. It is just that you have so much land to offer. It is so appealing,” Russia said, smiling agreeably.

“Again,” Feliks said. The trembling was uncontrollable now. He couldn't even worry about Liet now, or any of his friends. He was remembering Warsaw, the population dwindling, the survivors of the German occupation carted off to die while the Soviets watched. “You want to take my country and kill my people _again?_”

“That is very dramatic, Poland. I do not want to kill anyone.”

“Taking my country will kill me. You killed Ukraine and Japan, and now you're killing Iceland! And what about all the civilians?”

“Yes, there are always casualties in war. It is for the best, I assure you.”

“The best for _you_,” Poland spat. “What do you even want? What are you doing this for?”

Ivan blinked. “No one has ever thought to ask that. What an interesting question. To put it simply, I have had quite enough of the pushing around. For a long time, no one has respected my country. Accuse us of horrible things, turn us into joke, make light of the hardships we have endured. Maybe my government had made few mistakes; should my people suffer for it? Surely you understand why I cannot accept this.”

“We've all been pushed around,” Poland snapped. "By you, most of the time." 

“Ah, I was not finished, Poland,” Russia said. “Please do not be interrupting. For a long time I have seen the richest countries in the world ruining their governments, their societies—the entire world, truly. Poverty and starvation and diseases, all these things. I have been thinking, these problems are so simple to solve. If only someone would listen to me. But no one is ever willing to listen. Maybe you can relate.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Poland exclaimed.

“You are having a very poor attitude today, Poland,” Russia complained. “I am trying to have a polite conversation and you continue to interrupt. I'm afraid I will have to punish you.”

“What? What the hell are you going to do?”

“You are in a hurry to find out,” Russia said. “How strange. Well, I will call for the guards now, in that case.”

“Aren't you just going to kill me anyway?” Poland demanded.

“I am not violent man, Poland,” Russia said, giving a wide smile. “I do what is necessary. That is all I have ever wanted to do. You will understand someday.”

Poland wanted to cry. He cried too much, really, but usually only when Tolys or one of the others was around to comfort him. There was only Russia now, and Feliks refused to give him the pleasure of seeing him that way. He could at least pretend that he wasn't afraid.

~

The meeting place had always been a hole in the wall, but England was suddenly wondering if he was a bad pseudo-brother for taking Matthew and Alfred to a shady little place full of broken tables, drug dealers, and open alcoholics. America wouldn't notice anything amiss, but Canada would. After Matthew had wheeled America to a table in the corner he continued to glance around the bar, almost coolly, but England could tell he was unnerved. It made sense; the place was rowdy, and the outcasts of a terrified country flocked here at all hours of the day and night, making for questionable company. Canada startled as France took a seat beside him and took his hand, and the two exchanged increasingly apologetic looks. England cleared his throat to catch Canada's attention.

“It's good to see you, Matthew.”

“You too, of course.” Matthew hesitated for a moment, glancing at Francis, who was still clutching his hand and watching him with a faint smile. France seemed truly happy to see Canada, and it was painfully obvious that he wanted to speak to him. He didn't even attempt it. “So, he's really...?”

“Deaf,” England responded flatly. “And mute, mostly because of the deafness.”

Matthew blinked. “How...?”

Arthur shrugged. “I wish I knew. It happened during Wave 2; I know that much. Probably when Paris was bombed, but I can't be sure of it. He came and found me afterwards, and...” he trailed off and shrugged again. He didn't really want to talk about it. He still felt guilty about the whole thing. When Francis had come up to him on the street while he was working with the rebuilding efforts and hadn't spoken to him, just kept giving him those sad looks and reaching for his hand, England had gotten a little too angry. Arthur realized with a start that he was rubbing softly at his cheek, and with a dull burn he remembered how he'd slapped France. He'd expected the man to start yelling at him then and finally make sense, because of course Arthur had known by then something was wrong, but France had just stumbled backwards and clutched at his cheek and stared at him, and Arthur had yelled, “_Say something, you fucking idiot!_”

Now England watched as France flinched, seeing what he was doing, and the older nation reached out to pull his hand off his face, and wrapped their fingers together. England stared back, and Francis shook his head just slightly. Arthur thought he got the message. It was a stupid message—France would be well within his rights to hold the incident against him—but it was a nice gesture.

Then, Arthur realized that France was still holding both his and Matthew's hands, and it was like they were connected around that little table, and it was far too profound a thought for the dingy little back-alley bar. He wondered if he ought to take America's hand, too, but when he glanced over, the boy was staring up at the ceiling, utterly entranced by the whirling blades of the hanging fan, and England let him be.

Canada asked, “Could we get some paper and a pen?”

“Ah,” Arthur said, and tried to think. He hadn't brought any with him, and didn't even have any money on him to buy some. “Probably not, unless you want to ask around, and believe me, you don't. I might be able to find us some charcoal, if you don't mind writing on the table.”

Canada shrugged, and England rose to search the fireplace. It was in the other corner, and was never actually lit, because it was far too hot for it. It was still, however, stocked with crumbly little black bits of charcoal. There were a couple of people around watching him warily, but they left him alone when he bent down to look in the fire pit.

A voice called out, “Hey blondie, what are you looking for in there?”

It was a rough voice, and England loosely connected it to the owner of the bar, an unfriendly brute of a man who liked to pick fights with people he thought he could beat. He turned around and winced as he realized that he was correct. It was indeed that very brute.

“Just a bit of coal to write with. I haven't got a pen.”

There was a pause. Arthur wasn't exactly scared, knowing that France and presumably Canada would come to his defense if anything were to happen, but he was uneasy. Although a human couldn't kill him, they could still make him feel pain, and of course that was hardly desirable.

“How am I supposed to believe you? I've seen you 'round here before, and you're right suspicious, if I do say so myself.”

At this point, Arthur decided to rearrange himself to a position that did not invite the man to kick him into the fire pit, and stood upright.

“If you've seen me, you must realize my friend over there cannot hear,” Arthur said as coolly as he could manage. “I was hoping to find something for him to write with.”

The man frowned at him. “What are you gonna write on, then?”

Ah. 'The table' was not a good answer. The man seemed very territorial.

“I was going to figure that out next.”

“Fucking sure you were, mate. Get out.”

Arthur blinked. “Out?”

“Out of the damn fireplace, out of my place, out of my alley. And don't come back. I've had enough of you. I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I don't like it.”

As Arthur numbly got to his feet and headed back to the fellow nations, he wondered just what the man supposed he did. Maybe all the 'be shady but don't be caught' business wasn't actually working in his favor, if a fellow running a place that didn't even try to hide its unsavoriness didn't want him around. He sat down, glanced back towards the fire pit, where the man was glaring at him, and sighed.

“Well, I got us kicked out.”

The corner of Matthew's lip twitched up. “You know, I'm not surprised.” England frowned, but Canada continued. “Where do we go now?”

“Out, I suppose. Maybe Francis can charm a girl for a pen.”

“How is that going to work? He can't talk. Also, you suppose girls just carry around pens in their purses?”

“I dunno. Hungary carries a frying pan half the time.”

“And Belarus carries knives; do you have a point?”

England was reminded why he and Matthew didn't tend to get along. He was just remembering their not-so-sweet familial days when the owner of the place, obviously thinking they had overstayed their welcome, pulled another man over and said something, staring directly at them.

“Let's just go before we start something we shouldn't finish.”

“Hm?”

“He's coming towards us, Matthew.”

“Who?”

“Goddammit, Matthew—start walking.”

~

Erzsébet came to  Zürich alone, having left Roderich behind in Austria. They agreed that it was time for him to watch over his own country, and Hungary would have done the same had it not been for a prior engagement that she would rather fulfill than deal with her government. She was unsurprised when Switzerland appeared the instant the clock shifted to three p.m. She knew who she was working with. 

“ Erzsébet,” Switzerland said gruffly. He was obviously uncomfortable saying her personal name; she couldn't remember the last time he had used it. Liechtenstein might have told him to do it, to make some effort at being friendly. 

“Basch,” Hungary returned, reaching for his hand to shake it enthusiastically. He seemed perturbed, his hand laying mostly limp in hers, his golden hair flopping around. She finally released him, feeling a bit sorry for the boy. “How long it's been.”

“Sure,” he said tightly.

Hungary frowned. She knew Switzerland was brusque, but this was edging towards just rude. “Well, if there is to be no small talk, could I ask exactly why our arrangement was so urgent? I didn't think there were any threats towards you or Liechtenstein.”

“Not immediate threats, no. But I have neglected to train Erika for a very long time, and--” Switzerland broke off, starting to turn slightly red. He was avoiding Hungary's eyes. “It seems that I am unable to train her myself.”

Erzsébet nearly giggled in delight. There was little she enjoyed more than watching men who took themselves too seriously make fools of themselves. Even in times of war, it still brought her joy.  “There's nothing to be ashamed of,” she cooed. “Of course you can't be too tough on your own sister. You're just lucky I wasn't busy. It would be difficult to track down another hussar.” 

“I thought you might be excited about it.”

“Oh, I am! Venturing off to the mountainside to train a young warrior, how wonderful. It's just like the fairy tales. And you do have a lovely country.”

“Yes, for now.”

“Aren't you morbid,”  Erzsébet said. She glanced around the train station, but her young pupil-to-be was nowhere to be found. “Where do you have Erika hiding now?” 

“She is not hiding. She is waiting in the car.”

“Can she drive?”

“No.”

“Then I am driving,” Hungary said.

“No, I will be taking you to Alpstein myself.”

Hungary scowled. “That isn't necessary.”

“Did you think I would send my sister off with you so easily? I don't mean to be rude, Hungary, but I do not trust you that much. We will have plenty of time to talk about your plans for training during the drive.”

Erzsébet felt a rush of indignation. She didn't know what she had thought--it wasn't exactly unreasonable for Switzerland to come with them, but it dashed her plans of whisking Erika away for her secret Magyar training regime. Aside from that, a drive with Basch, however brief, was something she had no desire to experience. “And what does your sister think about this?”

“She wants what I want,” Switzerland said, already turning to leave the station. And, Hungary thought with resentment, he was probably right. Liechtenstein was nothing if not devoted. It was one thing to love her brother; of course that was healthy. Blind adoration was not. Maybe Erzsébet could train her out of that, as well.

~

“Let's have a little chat,” Hungary said. She was facing a wide-eyed Liechtenstein, both of them seated cross-legged in tall grass. Behind Liechtenstein in her olive green fatigues, the earth dropped off into a valley, and behind that lay the breathtaking Swiss Alps. Hungary had picked their seating arrangement, claiming that she didn't want Erika to be distracted by the view; in actuality it was because Hungary was mostly a flat country and she truly did love the mountains. The air was clear, the land was mostly untouched, and there was the faint sense of danger that accompanied close proximity to cliffsides.

“Yes, Miss Héderváry,” Liechtenstein said quietly.

Hungary laughed. “ _Miss Héderváry_ ? You're free to call me Erzsébet, like before. Erzsi, even. I don't mind.”

Erika tilted her head. “But Miss Hungary, you are my teacher now.”

“Nothing so formal. I'm training you, dear, but that doesn't mean we can't be friends.” As she spoke, Erzsébet suddenly remembered the last time she and Erika had sat together like this as friends, and she sobered instantly. It hadn't been only the two of them there. Ukraine had been with them as well. There was no way that Erika hadn't been thinking the same thing. Hungary looked over the girl across from her, observing her solemn expression, her huge green eyes and the violet ribbon tied neatly into her short, sand-colored hair.

“Do you miss Irina?” Hungary asked.

Liechtenstein visibly startled. “Miss Ukraine?” she whispered. At Hungary's nod, she paused, glancing away. “Well, yes, of course I miss her. I don't understand how Mr. Russia could do such a thing to his own sister, either...”

“Only he knows that,” Erzsébet said. “Do you know what you and I are here for?”

Liechtenstein nodded. “For training.”

“My job is to teach you to protect yourself in case anything like that happens to you.”

Erika gasped. “My brother would never hurt me!”

Hungary held out her palm, trying to soothe the girl. “No, no, of course not. I don't mean Basch. You must know that Russia is working to take control of his neighboring countries? You are not anywhere near him now, but things could change.”

After a moment of consideration in which Hungary could nearly see the map of Europe Liechtenstein was imagining, the girl murmured, “Your country must be in great danger, Miss Hungary.”

Hungary smiled back. “My people have been through worse. I trust them to persevere.”

“That is why you took time away from them to train me?”

Inwardly, Hungary remarked that she hadn't been to her own country in months. It was true that she trusted her people, but more than that, she had realized long ago that there was nearly nothing she could do for them. Her government was in shambles, and even she wasn't capable of piecing it together. If she tried to help on the small scale, rebuilding or doing charity, she would only be disappointed in how little change her efforts made. Perhaps she should have stuck around purely to improve morale, but no one was particularly happy to see her anymore.

“Exactly,” Hungary said. “I believe the most important thing now is to make sure that we nations are able to defend ourselves. And we women, we must help each other.” She leaned in, giving Liechtenstein a meaningful look.

Erika giggled. “Then I will do my best.”

Erzsébet clasped her hands together and rose to her feet. “Wonderful. Firstly, dear, when was the last time you ran a marathon?”

~

“Can I ask you a weird question?” Hong Kong asked. He and Denmark were drinking beer by the radio, and there's been a lull in the constant stream of news of other nations. The station was run by a mix of civilians and politicians worldwide, and occasionally, there was a mention of one of their friends. A few minutes earlier they'd learned that Romania and Moldova were seen in Sofia, likely on their way west into the Balkans, or else bound for Istanbul. Seborga was found dead just across the border to France; no other information was given. There was word from Kenya—she and her people were doing fine, but central Africa was starving.

Denmark pointed a fish spine at Leon. He'd fried several fish whole, and now he and Hong Kong were slowly making their way through the pile, piece by piece. “I'd be disappointed if you didn't.”

“Alright.” Hong Kong hesitated, sucking the meat from between a line of bones. “You and Norway. You've slept together, right?”

Mathias swallowed sharply, letting out a surprised laugh. He chuckled to himself before answering. “Kid, you get old enough, you sleep with everyone.”

“Sure,” Leon said. He hadn't slept with very many people. But it was true, he was young, for a nation. He noticed the way Denmark avoided giving a straightforward answer, tried to play it off with humor. The man wasn't as subtle as he thought he was.

“I've been with Sweden and Finland both,” Denmark continued. “Not at the same time; that'd be weird. Also Poland, but _only _because we were both _very _high. Similar situation with Hungary. Oh, and the Netherlands and Belgium—again, not at the same time. That'd be even weirder.”

Hong Kong was starting to feel flustered. He didn't understand why, and that only flustered him further. “I get it; your body count's impressive. I am impressed.”

“You flatter me,” Mathias said. He tossed a bare fish skeleton onto the table and reached for another fish. “What about you? Any shockers?”

“Just South Korea, Vietnam and Monaco,” Leon said honestly. South Korea and Vietnam were self-explanatory; they were close friends, and as Mathias had suggested, things tended to happen when you and your friends stayed young and beautiful forever. On the other hand, he knew that Monaco was surprising. Denmark's eyes lit with interest.

“Cécile? Really?”

“Yeah. Seychelles introduced us. It didn't last long or anything—she's a little high class for me, and there's the distance. But she's beautiful. Really smart, too. I think she could've run France someday.”

Denmark was quiet for a moment. “Well, Francis isn't in any state to do it anymore.”

“Maybe she will, then.”

Another long silence filled the room. “It really is a shame about China,” Mathias said.

Hong Kong nearly scowled, but managed to restrain himself. Denmark had graciously taken him in, was feeding him and looking after him even though he was obviously busy and presumably stressed out of his mind. Hong Kong could manage to ignore a few tone-deaf comments about his psycho father figure. Mathias was old, jaded—and perhaps, as Leon was beginning to suspect, not a particularly nice person underneath the cheerful exterior.

And anyway, the man was going to wisen up soon. By all accounts, whether by Russia or his own illness, Iceland was going to die any day. Denmark had raised the kid. It was going to hurt. He was going to understand what Hong Kong had understood all along—that there was nothing to joke about. This was the end of the world.

~

“Have you ever wondered why there are so many songs called 'Paris is Burning'?” Monaco asked. She kicked a heavy piece of rubble out of her way, sending it careening into another pile of debris. Every building along this street had collapsed and burned, along with their contents. Even the Eiffel Tower had toppled, the metal melted and twisted. The city was much flatter now, creating a strange effect where, if not for the dust and ash clouding the sky, Monaco could have looked in any direction and seen the ruin spread for miles. This was just in the city center; it wasn't that the entire city was gone. Merely the heart of it.

Monaco was walking next to Seychelles, who had expressed an interest in seeing what had happened to the city. Cécile had not particularly wanted to come—if anything, she was wondering if they would run into Francis, but there was no one at all on these streets. There was no sign of any other nations, and the rest of the population were avoiding this part of the city due to radiation.

“Some kind of premonition?” Seychelles murmured.

“Now that I think about it, I believe the phrase comes from the second world war. A premonition indeed.”

Angélique hummed quietly, her eyes wide as she looked over the fallen buildings. “You know, before this, the worst thing I had ever seen was a coup in my country. There was a shoot-out in the airport. I thought it was the most horrible thing I would ever see first-hand.” She added, “You must have seen much worse.”

“It comes with being part of the mainland.”

Seychelles nodded slowly. “And so close to France.”

“It was Italy that was the problem,” Monaco said reproachfully. Even now, thinking of Italy's takeover of her country during World War II, she felt some indignation. It had been easy, before the current situation, to take solace in her country's wealth and success, but none of those things protected her people now.

“What do you think's happened to them?” Seychelles asked.

“The Italies?”

“And Francis.”

“Oh. I don't see any way France has gotten himself killed yet, but I have no idea where he is if he isn't in Paris. England, perhaps. Or Spain.”

“I heard that Spain is staying with Romano,” Angelique said.

“I heard that Romano's lost his mind.”

Seychelles giggled, before she slapped a hand to her mouth, looking horrified that she'd laughed at that. “_Cécile_.”

“It's true. His brother's dead, and--”

“You don't know that,” Seychelles countered.

“Right. Well, if you see him, let me know. That might improve everyone's morale.”

“We could go to Italy next and look for him! It's only a few hours away by train, right?"

Monaco stared at the girl next to her. Seychelles's face was alight with excitement, her deep brown eyes wide. Monaco nearly smiled back. "You don't want to go back to your own country, do you?"

Seychelles looked away. “It's hard to find a plane these days, you know. And it's lonely out there alone.”

Cécile frowned. At first, she had been surprised that Angélique had wanted to come to Paris with her. They were friends, but not especially close, and Monaco hardly felt qualified to give a tour of Francis's city. Later she had realized that Angelique's closer friends were mostly missing or dying or dealing with catastrophes. And as the girl had pointed out, she was alone in the middle of the ocean. And these were frightening times.

“Alright,” Monaco said. “Let's go to Italy, then. There's nothing much left in this country anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Some notes:  
1\. I've decided to update on Monday afternoons! Please check back next week, I've already written most of the next chapter.  
2\. Speaking of the next chapter, some big things are coming :)  
3\. I don't think there's any canon evidence that Seychelles/Hong Kong/Iceland are friends, but that's been my headcanon for a long time, since they're all around the same age and they don't really have ANY canon friends...


	4. Chapter 4

Italy awoke suddenly, shaken roughly awake by someone who was also shouting from somewhere just above him. He stayed still, lying flat on his stomach, his mind still clouded from sleep. He wondered blearily where he was—this didn't feel like his bed—and who was currently leaning onto his mattress, a strange knee crushing his thigh. He didn't think he had been expecting any visitors, but really, he didn't think that he was thinking straight, either. Every thought seemed vague as it crossed his mind; he couldn't even remember what he had done last night, or when he had gone to sleep.

“You better wake up this time, Veneziano. They're gonna toss you in a ditch soon.”

A shock ran through Feliciano. That voice was familiar. He haphazardly tried to turn onto his back, but his arms gave out on him in a painful spasm, and he collapsed back onto the bed. A pool of fear filled his stomach. How long had he been asleep, for his body to weaken like this? What on earth had happened to him? As his mind raced, a pair of strong arms gripped his shoulders, and Italy stared in shock as he was turned onto his back to face Prussia.

The man looked, in a word, disheveled—his silver hair was stuffed under an ill-fitting cap, and he wore unfamiliar, dirty fatigues. Behind him was a row of double-stacked cots lined with threadbare blankets. Most of the beds were empty, but a few held tiny, motionless bodies. The building was small and wooden, and a rush of chilled air hit Italy from behind. He must have had his back to the door. Italy looked down to his own clothing—he was also wearing an outfit made of thick, dull-colored fabric, definitely not his own cozy silk pajamas. He looked up at Prussia in growing horror, and the man met his eyes, his expression grim.

Then Prussia cracked a smile. “You Italians do sleep a lot, huh? Pretty soon I was gonna have to fight off the scavengers. They've been eyeing your jacket. I got you a nice one.”

Italy opened and closed his mouth. No sound would come out. He licked his lips and tried again, but all he could manage was a short, distressed whine.

“Oh, my god. Are you brain-dead too? Is it spreading?”

“I—I'm not _brain-dead_,” Feliciano spluttered.

Gilbert held out his palm in a soothing motion, his eyes widening slightly. “Okay, fine. Bad joke, I guess. Alfred was bombed and he went off the deep end, and then you turned up here and didn't even twitch for three days...”

Italy stared at Prussia, trying to comprehend the man's words. He'd been bombed? Was that possible? He knew there had been threats, and Russia was certainly capable of doing it, but... shouldn't Italy remember something like that? The last thing he could recall was when he'd been frantically calling his brother and Germany, wanting to talk to someone, anyone, about the outbreak of the war. He hadn't truly been worried about his own country, but the fate of the entire world was suddenly at risk—it was terrifying. Ultimately, he was unable to contact either of them, and he'd left home and headed for Naples to find Romano.

Had it happened then, while he was on the road? Had he lost his memory in the impact?

“Where are we?” Italy asked tentatively.

“Hell if I know. Somewhere in Eastern Europe; that's the best I got. Probably to the north, it's cold as fuck here. Before you ask, yes, Russia caught us both. Let's not talk about it. It's embarrassing.”

“He... caught us?”

Prussia smiled bitterly. “Some of his agents grabbed me right off the street in Karlovy Vary. I'm guessing they found you after Rome was bombed. You weren't in the city, were you?”

Feliciano shook his head, feeling himself trembling. He did remember leaving the city, but he can't have gotten far if the blast had been strong enough to knock him out for days.

Gilbert nodded. “That must be why you survived.” A thought seemed to occur to him, and he shifted where he sat close beside Italy. “Your brother's still kicking, last I heard. West, too.”

Italy let out a slow, shaky breath. “Thank god,” he whispered.

“You should probably get up. Show the guards you're still alive. Like I said, they're getting suspicious.”

Italy let Prussia pull him unsteadily to his feet. He felt like a sailor stepping onto land after a voyage; if not for Prussia's unwavering arm around his shoulders, he would have dropped to the floor in a heap. Everything ached. He felt the cold properly for the first time, and he shivered, his teeth starting to chatter. Gilbert helped him turn around, and Italy caught his first glimpse of the world outside. They were surrounded by a bleak, gray forest, and they were mostly alone, apart from a few other people dressed in shades of brown wandering slowly out into the trees, tools swinging listlessly in their hands.

Italy wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and pull the blanket over his head, but he knew that Prussia was right. Italy knew a thing or two about work camps, and he knew that there was little tolerance for lethargy.

“How lucky that we were brought to the same place,” Feliciano whispered to Prussia as they made their way towards the doorway.

Prussia laughed loudly in his ear. “Oh, god, don't give Ivan credit for that. You were sent halfway across the forest. The lucky thing is that I found out where you were before something worse happened.”

Italy didn't want to know what he meant by 'worse'. Instead he asked, “How did you find out?”

“I've got a few informants among the guards.”

“Why would they help you?”

“My charm and good looks, obviously,” Prussia said. When Italy failed to react, he continued, “They're not all loyal to the big man. A few still believe in peace and world order. It's hard to believe, I know.”

“And... why are you helping _me_?”

Prussia was silent for a long moment. “Where would we be if we didn't help each other, eh? The world's gone crazy, but we don't have to change. _Scheiße_. You're all I have left now.”

Italy was uncomfortable with that level of responsibility. As they walked out of the doorway and into the blistering cold, Feliciano removed Prussia's arm from around his shoulders and took a look around. Grimacing against the wind, he found that they truly were in the middle of a forest, quiet like the dead and almost empty. The only other people around had disappeared; they must have all already gone to start working. Italy guessed that Prussia must have been allowed to stay back and look after him, probably given permission by those few sympathetic guards.

“Do you think we'll see them again?” Italy asked. He kept his voice low despite their seclusion from the other workers. The forest was making him nervous. He felt like the trees might be listening in.

“Well,” Gilbert said. “About that. You've probably guessed by now—it is _me _we're talking about—but I have a plan.”

Feliciano straightened in surprise. “Oh?”

“Of course! But you're not gonna like it.”

“Oh,” Italy said, starting to slouch again. He shouldn't have expected anything else.

“First things first, I'm gonna teach you Russian.”

~

“Your place didn't get hit much at all,” Canada observed. He was sipping at a cup of British tea that he wasn't particularly enjoying, and keeping a careful eye on America, who was watching the television intently and fidgeting with a few of Arthur's old toy soldiers. To Canada's left at the table, France was writing on a piece of stationary in unnecessarily intricate cursive, and across the table England was frowning at them both over his own cup of tea, which he was absolutely enjoying. Eventually Arthur had given up on being secretive and brought the three rather conspicious nations back to his own apartment, claiming that he didn't care if the Russian secret police were watching, as they surely knew everyone's location already.

“Not much, no,” England said. “He spared me the hydrogen bombs, anyhow. I'm not sure why, but I think I ought to be insulted.”

“Isn't that a little cynical?” Matthew mused.

Arthur set his cup to the table. “Yes, you're right. I don't want to give you the wrong impression; of course I'm ecstatic that London is one of the safer places to be at the moment. But everything is still quite shitty overall.”

“I never said it wasn't.” Canada took another glance at Francis. He was still writing, and it didn't seem like he would finish anytime soon. The man had seemed almost apprehensive to receive a sheet of paper, as though he'd never expected to actually have to write down his thoughts. A moment later he was scribbling furiously. “I don't know if this is an uncomfortable question, but... what are your plans? Did you want us here for anything in particular, or just to see Alfred?”

“To see _both _of you,” England said far too quickly. He blinked rapidly, and Canada could tell that he was avoiding looking at America. Matthew could have laughed. “And that's not the only reason. Those of us in the west have been talking things over—off the record, of course. Belgium and her brothers are planning a meeting in Brussels next month. They haven't made it public who else is attending, but I'd bet a fair number of other nations will be there. The invitation is, of course, extended to you as well.”

Canada nodded thoughtfully. “Just the west, eh? ”

“Well, yes, actually. Most of the others are either in hiding or otherwise difficult to track down. I know Hungary has been on the move constantly.”

“That's hardly new.”

“Indeed.” Arthur paused, and continued slowly. “Belgium couldn't guarantee that the meeting will be secure, and I completely understand if that's unacceptable for you, but I plan to attend. I'm going to ask Francis to come along, too.”

Matthew chuckled, but stopped himself as he noticed England's bemused expression. “Oh, man. Give me a little credit. I've come all the way to London; do you really think I wouldn't go? I'm just trying to figure out what to do with Alfred.”

“He can come as well.”

“Do you think that's a good idea?” Canada asked.

England finally allowed himself to glance over to America. The boy had rolled onto his side, focused entirely on the figurines, playing like a child who'd forgotten the rest of the world. “Well, he can't take care of himself, can he? I wouldn't trust anyone else to do it, either. He's probably safest with us.”

Canada nodded. “I think you're right. It'll make him happy to see the others, too.”

France suddenly tapped the table, causing the other two nations to look over to him. The man set his letter down at the center of the table, staring down at it, biting his lip in what seemed like apprehension. England hesitated, but eventually tilted the letter to face him. After he started to read it, his expression darkened, and he pushed it towards Matthew.

“It's in French,” England said brusquely. “Could you translate?”

“Oh. Sure.” Canada lifted up the letter, and with a final glance towards France, who was avoiding eye contact, he started to read it. “'My dearest friends, I am ecstatic to be able to finally speak to you. I was a bit perturbed that England did not find a pen for me before, but I understand that he is broke and he probably cannot afford to buy one.” Canada broke off to hide a laugh behind his hand; he quickly cleared his throat and continued. “I have much to say to both of you, but first of all, I hope that this does not change the way either of you think about me. I am still the same beautiful France, so please do not pity me. I have seen England looking at me like a kicked puppy. Please, um... he says 'please don't do that shit', but kind of eloquently.”

“I understand,” England said gruffly.

“I am not sure what you two have been discussing, but I have a favor to ask. It is very tiring to write out my thoughts, especially when there is a much easier way that I could communicate. If it is at all possible, I would like to reunite with Monaco, if she is still alive and able to be found. She understands French sign language, as I do. I am not sure where she is, but I do very much hope to see her again. It is very isolating, being able only to speak to myself in my own thoughts. I never thought I would admit to missing my frequent arguments with England, but I must accept that I do.” Canada trailed off. “It, um... it gets kind of mushy.”

“Just read it, dammit,” Arthur said, his voice tight.

“My dear Arthur, I hope you will not blame yourself for anything in the past. Given so much time to think, I have realized that none of it was ever vastly important. It is much more vital that we remain together in such dark times as these. I have no regrets now. I hope you feel the same. And to my dear Matthew, I am indescribably happy to see that you are safe. It has been very long since I have seen you, and after hearing about how Alfred has suffered, I worried terribly about you. I am sorry that we must meet in such unfortunate circumstances, but I hope you understand that I will always be grateful for your presence.” Canada swallowed harshly. “Oh, wow. Um. He's never said anything like that before...”

“Is there any more?” England mumbled.

“Just a little bit. 'My friends, although it is easy in these times to feel pessimistic about the situations we find ourselves in, I hope that you will not allow yourselves to become too miserable. I have noticed how sad you both look, particularly when looking at America. Please remember that we have all survived, which is more than others can say. We are together and safe, for now. That is a blessing.' And that's the end,” Canada said, turning the letter to show Arthur.

“Well,” England said softly. Canada glanced up, catching Arthur wiping at the corner of his eye. France watched him, seemingly unsure how to react—Matthew was also unsure, unwilling to speak and risk disrupting. Suddenly England ducked his head, covering his face with his palm, and slapped his other arm to the table, offering his outstretched hand to Francis. France's face lit up in delight, and he took Arthur's hand happily, turning to smile at Canada as well.

“We're gonna go fucking find Monaco,” Arthur blubbered. Francis patted his hand, smiling soothingly. Canada leaned back in his chair, looking over at Alfred. America seemed to have noticed the commotion, and was looking at England with a lost expression until Canada waved at him, catching his attention.

“Hey, Alfie, don't worry,” Matthew called. “Everything's fine.”

America immediately broke into a smile. “Oh, really? That's great.”

Canada smiled back at him, feeling a sudden warmth in his chest. “It is, right? We're all just fine.”

~

Iceland knew that Russia would find him eventually. The man would never give up, and Emil was too sick to leave his island. There was nothing he could do to avoid it. To his surprise, Norway refused to believe in this inevitability—although Iceland suspected it was more that his brother didn't _want _to believe it.

When Russia's booming voice sounded outside Iceland's front door, Emil decided that this was true, because Norway's expression said it all—he was stricken, but unsurprised. He moved quickly, dragging Emil towards the back room. Iceland had been losing weight at a rate that alarmed even him, and he was easy to move, but Russia was quicker than they were. The door came crashing in, and a thunder of footsteps sounded at the front of the house. Lukas froze. He didn't even seem to breathe.

Russia spotted them immediately, but he walked slowly, not in any rush. Norway turned slowly, pulling Iceland along with him.

Russia was watching them like a predator, a slight smile on his face. He was surrounded by Russian soldiers, armed with machine guns aimed at the floor, but he stood separately from them, not a single weapon on his person. His violet eyes were locked on Emil.

“Norway and Iceland,” Russia said, his voice nearly sweet. “How lovely. Informant was honest, yes? Can you guess who was?”

Iceland felt Norway let out a slow, shaky breath. His brother said nothing. Someone in Reykjavík had sold them out. Emil didn't have the energy to wonder who it was; he hardly felt upset about it. After all, he'd known it would happen.

“Please do get comfortable. We have some talking to be done, yes?” Russia said. “Sit, sit.”

Lukas obliged, bringing Iceland carefully to a plush chair at the side of the room. He helped Iceland settle down, refusing to meet his eyes, then turned, walking slowly back towards Russia and standing directly between the man and Iceland. Emil's eyes wandered to the soldiers lining the walls of the room—they were watching Norway, their faces hardened, expressionless. Their fingers never left the triggers of their machine guns.

“Well,” Lukas said. His voice was almost silent; Emil had to strain to hear him. “What did you come to say?”

“Nothing surprising, I am sure,” Russia said. “I will be taking custody of your brother, and I would be appreciating your cooperation.”

Norway took a step forwards, his fists clenching, and instantly every soldier raised their guns at once, aiming the barrels at Lukas's head. Emil could see Russia's face—he smiled pleasantly as he raised his hand, gesturing for the soldiers to stand down.

“Gentleman, please, no need to threaten,” Russia said. He didn't spare a glance to his soldiers, but they slowly lowered their weapons. “Norway and I, we can talk this out, yes?”

“You will not touch him,” Norway growled.

“Norway, you are not stupid man. You have no power over me; we both know that.”

“Take his land if you want. Take me, even, but you don't need him. Let him leave with a few civilians. That's all I ask.”

“I am so sorry, Norway, but that will not be possible. I will have to ask you to step aside. I have business with our little Iceland.”

There was a sudden flash of motion, and as Iceland watched in horror, every soldier in the room raised their guns and advanced towards Norway, who was aiming a small pistol at Russia. Russia jerked his hand up again, and this time a tinge of anger crossed his face. He snapped something in Russian, and once again, his soldiers stood down, but Iceland could clearly see the fury in their eyes.

“Norway,” Russia said softly. “I cannot ignore threat to me, but if you stand aside now, I will let you live.”

“Brother!” Iceland cried. “You don't have to protect me. I'll be okay. Please, just leave. The others need your help more than me.”

Norway said calmly, “I would rather die.” A bang echoed throughout the room, and a rush of red burst from Russia's head. Blood gushed down his face, streaming to the floor and staining his beige clothing. Emil cringed back in terror, waiting for the soldiers to strike—but they stood still. And instead of falling to the floor, Russia smiled wider.

“Very well,” Russia said. He stepped towards Norway, and before the man could react, he wrapped a hand around Lukas's throat. Norway stumbled, and the pistol clattered to the floor. Lukas brought his hands to Russia's wrist, but the larger nation was far too strong for Norway to push him away.

“No!” Iceland protested. He pushed against his chair, desperately trying to summon the strength to stand—it took several tries, but he managed to stand on his own feet, and he took faltering steps towards his brother. His eyes were caught on his Lukas's face—he was panicked, gasping for breath, his face flushed.

Iceland had nearly reached him when Russia twitched his fingers with a horrifying crack. He released his grip, and the world seemed to come to a stop as Lukas fell to the floor. Iceland collapsed to his knees, letting out a wail from deep in his throat. He struggled to shuffle over to his brother's body—Norway had fallen face-down, but Iceland could see the side of his face, one eye staring straight ahead. Emil felt himself trembling.

“No,” he whispered. “No, please.”

“How disappointing,” Russia said sadly.

“Lukas,” Emil said, his voice breaking. “Lukas, you didn't have to do that. What am I going to do now?”

“Iceland, unfortunately we must continue our discussion,” Russia said. Iceland jerked his head up, meeting Russia's eyes through a blur of tears. The man's entire front was drenched in blood, but he seemed otherwise unaffected. Norway's shot had done nothing. He had died for nothing.

“I'll never come with you,” Emil hissed.

“Oh?” Russia said. He appeared genuinely surprised by this, his bloody eyebrows arching. In a daze, Iceland imagined what Russia could possibly want with him—another “friend” he would keep in a locked room, to parade around for his own entertainment? A pawn he could use for negotiations, or ransom? Just another pair of hands in a labor camp? Or just a body to torture before he finished the job?

“You'll have to kill me, too.”

“Oh,” Russia said. He cast his gaze downward, seeming perfectly disappointed. “Well, I can do that... oh, this meeting has become such failure. I will have to do better in future. Ah, well.”

Russia stepped forwards and leaned down, looming over Norway's body. He cast a glance towards Norway's discarded pistol, grasped it and aimed it at Emil's forehead in one smooth motion.

Emil knew it would kill him. He wasn't strong enough, nowhere nearstrong enough to survive a shot to the head.

So Lukas's gun would be useful after all.

“Farewell, little Iceland,” Russia said. “I do hope you will join your brother.”

Emil heard the bang before he felt it, and only felt it for a moment. Then it was black.

~

Finland was sitting with Sealand in his lap when Russia's face appeared on the television screen, grinning and drenched in blood as the camera zoomed in on him. Finland stiffened. Peter was pulled from his lap, protesting as Berwald carried him out of the room.

“Hey, I want to see creepy mister Russia too, why does Papa get to watch it?”

Timo leaned in as Russia began to speak.

“Oh, we are live? Wonderful. Hello world, it is me, Russia. You may be surprising to see me, but do not worry, this is just little special message. There are certain people I hope to be watching, but unfortunately I know I cannot control this yet...” Russia glanced down, then off to the side. He said something in Russian, and the camera zoomed quickly out. The man was standing over two bodies, both covered in blood. Finland nearly fell out of his chair. He recognized those uniforms. Only one of the bodies was facing up, and its face was nearly unrecognizable, but still—there was no mistaking who was lying there.

“Berwald!” Timo screamed. Only seconds later, Sweden rushed into the room, and the man looked over Finland briefly before following Timo's gaze to the television. His mouth dropped open.

Russia waved to the camera. “You all know who are these people? Maybe not. I will explain.” He spoke again in Russian, and the camera shook until Russia took it and aimed it down at Norway's body. “This is mister Norway, mister Lukas Thomassen. Because I am not wanting questions, I will say—yes, I killed him. Please do not be misunderstanding; I did not do out of malice. I take no specific pleasure in killing people. In fact, little Iceland--” the camera shifted, aiming at Iceland's blood-soaked body. A large part of his face was missing. Timo felt himself shaking; Berwald's hand found his, squeezing his trembling fingers. “Little Iceland actually asked me to kill him. Was not my plan, but is what happens when I do not receive the cooperation. You understand? I say again.”

The camera shook again, and Russia appeared once more. “This is not threat; just warning. When I make plan, I expect every person involved to obey me. When does not happen that way, this is the kind of result that occur. People die. It is simple.”

“Berwald--” Timo began, his voice wavering.

“Sh.” Berwald pulled Finland against his shoulder.

“I have many plans for future, and now that I have given this small message, I hope no more unpleasantness to happen. Are we all understanding?” Russia paused, and for a moment it seemed he was actually expecting a response. Then he broke into a smile. “I hope so. Then, goodbye to everyone. I will see you soon.”

The screen flickered. It switched to the news station that Finland had been watching beforehand—the reporters were staring blankly at the screen. No one spoke. A woman had a hand covering her mouth, but her eyes were as dull as everyone else's.

“Berwald, go and make sure Peter didn't hear anything,” Finland said. His horror was turning into a bubbling fury, but of course he wasn't going to turn it on Sweden. He relaxed his hand, pulled it from Berwald's grip, and patted his partner's shoulder. “I'm going to call Mathias.”

“Mm.” Sweden rose and disappeared from the room.

Finland had Denmark's number committed to muscle memory. He didn't even glance at his phone as he called; he was staring into space, unable to shake the image of his friends' bodies, and Russia standing over them. He was relieved when the call was almost immediately picked up, but froze as an unfamiliar voice spoke on the other line.

“You've got Mathias's house,” said the voice, young, male and unhappy.

“Who is this?” Timo demanded.

“Um,” the boy said. “I don't know if I should tell you that. Who's this?”

“This is Finland, and I am warning you, I'm not in the mood for any jokes.”

“I'm not joking!” the boy insisted. “I'm Hong Kong, but I'm serious, no one's supposed to know that I'm here.”

“At Mathias's house?” Timo clarified. He hadn't thought that Denmark and Hong Kong even knew each other.

“Yeah, I've been staying with him. He's not here. Sorry about that, I guess.”

Finland's confusion shifted to suspicion. “Why not?”

“I'm not sure,” Hong Kong said. “He didn't say anything before he left. We were watching TV, and... I'm sure you just saw the same thing we did. He seemed, um... kind of upset. Just got up, grabbed a few things and left. He wouldn't say a word to me.”

“Okay.” Finland let out a slow, deep breath. “I'm going to come down there. We'll wait for him for a while—unless you have somewhere else to be.”

“No,” Hong Kong said, somewhat miserably.

“Alright. Then we'll wait for him, and if he doesn't come back soon then I'll just bring you to Helsinki, if that's okay with you.”

“More than okay.”

“Great,” Finland said. He'd never felt more insincere when using the word. Nothing had been 'good' for a while, and now he thought nothing would ever be 'great' again. Berwald appeared in the doorway, and Timo quickly said goodbye to Hong Kong and ended the call.

“What is it?” Finland asked quietly.

“We're going to have to tell him. He knows something's wrong. I thought you would want to do it together.”

Finland sighed. “I'm not even sure what to think myself. We can tell him later.”

Sweden shrugged. “If that's what you want. What did Mathias say?”

“He's missing.”

Sweden's expression was grim. “Was afraid he'd do that.”

“Do what?”

“Well, knowing him, either he's off to find the bodies 'nd mourn,” Sweden said, “Or he's goin' to get revenge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. To any Nordics fans out there....... I'm sorry  
2\. I went back and fixed a line where Hong Kong said Seychelles was dead. That was left in from an earlier (even edgier) draft. Oops. She's alive!  
3\. Please leave a comment if you're liking the story, or have anything else to say! I love getting feedback and I appreciate every comment. It also helps me stay motivated to keep writing.   
4\. I decided I want to add a mini playlist in a different language w/ each update, just for fun. This one is pretty Hungarian folk-ish music (can you tell I've been thinking about APH Hungary lately?) Give it a listen if you want!  
The Moon and the Nightspirit - Rögből élet  
Holdviola - Tavaszi szél  
Palya Bea - Hoppá  
Nox - Törött szárnyú madár  
The Moon and the Nightspirit - Égi Táltos  
Holdviola - Ha te tudnád  
The Moon and the Nightspirit - Pagan


	5. Chapter 5

Living in Denmark's house without him was extremely strange at first, but Hong Kong adjusted after a few days without the older man. He could cook for himself, and he figured out how to work the television, although after what he'd seen before, he was a little nervous each time he turned it on. Luckily Russia never appeared again; instead Hong Kong watched Danish-language news channels until he gave up trying to understand. After he'd nearly succumbed to boredom he started risking short walks down the streets of Copenhagen, acutely aware of how much he stood out. Finally, six days after Finland had called, the man showed up on Denmark's doorstep with a rifle slung across his shoulder and a tin of pastries under his arm.

“Hello, Hong Kong,” Finland said breezily, stepping past him into the house. A moment later he turned around. “What's your name again?”

“Leon.”

“Leon. Alright. Here,” Finland said, pushing the tin into Hong Kong's hands.

“Oh, um. Thank you.”

“I made them myself,” Finland said. “I thought you might be hungry.” He seemed slightly nervous, and Hong Kong followed him as he walked quickly around the house, looking over Denmark's small, cluttered home. Hong Kong was a little embarrassed of how disorganized it was, but he wasn't responsible for most of the mess. Of couse, he hadn't bothered to clean it, either. He chewed on a pastry that tasted overwhelmingly of cardamom as he watched Finland poke around.

“Well, I guess he hasn't come back yet,” Finland said finally, turning to face Hong Kong.

“Nope.”

“How have you been faring alone?”

“I dunno. I'm kind of used to it.”

Finland _tsked_, looking distressed. “You poor thing. I'm sorry you have to deal with all of this. I'm sure it was stressful enough having to run away from China.”

Hong Kong hesitated, chewing slowly. He and Finland had never spoken much, but the man had a comforting presence, much different from Iceland's quiet aloofness or Denmark's hyperactivity. Leon was almost reminded of China, when Yao had been trying to act kind, or paternal. Of course, Yao could never really pull off the act, falling back onto irritability and a refusal to understand his younger siblings. Finland seemed to be genuine.

“It's been pretty hard,” Hong Kong said quietly.

“No doubt. You and Emil were friends, as well.”

“We hadn't talked in a while,” Hong Kong admitted. “I knew he was sick, and Russia was coming after him. I was kind of expecting something like that to happen.”

“Well, you didn't need to see it, in any case. None of us did. Russia has truly lost his mind.” For a moment Leon saw fatigue slip across Finland's face, but before he could comment on it, the man swallowed sharply, placed his hands his hips and glanced again around the sitting room. “Do you need to pack anything? I'd like to get going quickly.”

“I have everything.”

“Excellent. Let's go, then. Bring the pastries,” Finland said, gesturing at the tin. Hong Kong gave a small smile, holding up the tin in agreement. He followed Finland outside, and Hong Kong gave a final look back to the house that had been his home for the last several weeks. He couldn't help but wonder about Denmark, but he couldn't bring himself to ask about him. If Finland knew anything, surely he would have said something. And of course, the man's disappearance was probably a sore subject. Hong Kong followed Finland down the street to the Metro station, and they rode the oddly empty train through the city, finally arriving at a small field next to the airport. Finland led him into a passenger plane and watched over him carefully as he buckled his seatbelt.

“I hope you are not afraid of flying,” Finland said off-handedly, fidgeting with the plane's controls. “I didn't ask.”

“Don't worry about me.”

“Oh, wow,” Finland said, laughing to himself softly. “So tough.”

“I just mean that I'm not a child,” Hong Kong said quickly.

“Well, I know that.” The plane's engine roared, and began to barrel ahead through the field. A moment later, they were airborne. “I'm sorry for my rudeness on the phone, by the way. That was uncalled for, eh?”

“That's fine,” Hong Kong said, staring out the window at the rapidly shrinking city. “You were worried. It was kind of a crazy situation.”

“That is one word for it.” Finland was quiet for a long moment before speaking. “I hope you aren't blaming yourself for Mathias leaving.”

“Oh.” Hong Kong thought back to the afternoon Denmark had disappeared. When the broadcast ended, Hong Kong had been frozen in shock, too nauseated to realize that Mathias had left the room. He snapped out of it when the man appeared again, carrying a backpack and a pistol and storming past him towards the doorway. Leon had trailed after him, asking tentatively what he was doing, where he was going—he hadn't gotten an answer. He caught a glimpse of Mathias's face as he left; he had an odd expression, intensely focused, tinged with something like numbness. Then Denmark was gone, and Hong Kong decided not to follow.

“I don't think I could have stopped him, honestly,” Hong Kong said.

“You're probably right. When he gets an idea in his head...” Finland sighed, trailing off. “I'd like to say that I hope he isn't doing anything stupid, but really, what else does he do...”

Hong Kong again hesitated, but he eventually asked, “Where do you think he is?”

“Hmm. If I had to guess, I would say Iceland.”

“You don't think he's going after Russia?” Hong Kong asked in surprise.

“Maybe not right away. I don't know, really. This is all very morbid. Maybe we should talk about something more pleasant.”

“Um...”

“Have you met Sealand?” Finland asked, sounding suddenly cheerful.

“Once or twice, yeah.”

“He's staying with Mr. Sweden and I, but his royal family lives in England. We spoke with them the other day. We were a little worried about them, but they're perfectly safe. It's very lucky.”

“Yeah, that's great,” Hong Kong said, leaning back into his seat, It appeared he wasn't going to get anything else out of Finland. He didn't seem to want to speculate, and Hong Kong wasn't going to push it. He figured Denmark would show up eventually, or else they would hear about him in the news; either way, his plans wouldn't be a mystery forever.

  
~

All things considered, Italy was adjusting fairly well to living in a work camp. He had to admit that Prussia's presence made it much easier. Gilbert made sure to wake Italy up each morning despite his resistance to getting out of bed, and the other prisoners for the most part left both of them alone, whether because of Prussia's own intimidation efforts or because they'd noticed the guards' preferential treatment. No one tried to steal Italy's clothing or food, no one harassed him, and no one even wanted to work beside him and Gilbert as they spent each day chopping down half-dead trees.

Prussia even made sure that the arrangement never left Feliciano lonely—although he did seem to be overcompensating. Italy was starting to suspect that Prussia just wanted him around to keep from getting bored. The man had actually tried to teach him Russian at the beginning, but Feliciano struggled with the guttural vowels and the slurring consonants, and most of the prisoners communicated in English anyway, as they had been shipped to the camp from all across the continent.

“There's a surprise coming today,” Gilbert said, grinning wickedly. He was chopping wood at an alarming rate; he never seemed to get tired. Italy most definitely did get tired, but he'd learned that Prussia wouldn't let him face any consequences for it. When the work day was over, Gilbert would move some of his own ridiculously large pile into Feliciano's, so he never came back with an insufficient amount.

“What kind of surprise?” Italy asked glumly. He was already exhausted.

“You'll see. We should go back and pick it up soon.”

Italy didn't ask any further questions, unwilling to spend his very limited energy on talking. A few hours later a guard that Italy recognized as one of Prussia's informants came to bring them back to their residence building, and left after speaking briefly with Gilbert off to the side. As Prussia and Italy walked into the building, they found a small man with shoulder-length blond hair sitting on a mattress, holding a blanket tightly around himself. As the man turned to face them with a wary expression, Italy gasped, and Poland leaped to his feet.

“_Prussia_?” Poland blurted. He broke into rapid curses in Polish, before he took a sharp step towards Gilbert, his eyes narrowing in fury. “_You _brought me here? You must have lost your brain last century. I thought I was being taken to be--” he broke off, seeming to notice Italy for the first time. His expression shifted quickly to skepticism, an eyebrow cocked. “You're alive.”

“Jeez, could you sound less disappointed?” Prussia complained. Feliks whipped his head around to glare at him.

“I _am_ alive, I'm pretty sure,” Feliciano offered.

“No, that's good,” Poland said, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. “It is a surprise for me too. I thought Russia was totally going to kill me. I mean really, why spare me when we all know what he did to Irina?”

“_Irina_,” Gilbert repeated. “You were close?”

Poland rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but Italy quickly interrupted, “Yes, it's such a shame what happened to Ukraine. Maybe we should also focus on not dying now.”

Poland gave a gruff nod of agreement. Relieved, Italy turned to Prussia. His heart sank at the annoyance in the man's eyes. “You aren't gonna ask _why _I brought you here?”

“Because you are obsessed with me,” Poland muttered.

“Nope, that's not it. I've got a plan to get us out of here and I thought you might want in, but now I'm reconsidering.”

“Were you expecting me to be grateful?” Feliks hissed. “There is no way out of this camp. You're delusional if you think so. Do you think I want to spend the last days of my life arguing with a man-child?”

“There's no way with _that _attitude,” Gilbert retorted. “Listen, Polski, we're going to have to learn to get along, since your little friend Liet isn't here to--” Prussia was interrupted as Poland lunged at him, and a crack echoed through the clearing as Poland slammed his fist into Prussia's face. Italy froze, and Gilbert stumbled backwards, his eyes widened in shock while Feliks jumped back to a safe distance. As Italy watched in horror, Prussia took a heaving breath and rose to his full height, his eyes narrowed at Feliks. One eye was already reddened and swelling.

“  _Scheiße_ ,” Prussia muttered, cradling his cheek. “I'd forgotten that you bite.”

“You have no right to speak about Lithuania,” Poland growled. He pushed his hair neatly behind his ears, turning his icy glare towards Italy. “And you should be careful, too. I have not been in forgiving mood lately.”

Feliciano chose not to argue, and definitely not to echo Prussia's remark that this was unexpected coming from Poland. Feliks was a complicated man, he had to remember. The two were friends, but there were other sides to him that Italy didn't usually see. Poland was hardly known for his aggression in the modern day, but he had won plenty of wars in his own right, even without the assistance from Lithuania that Prussia had joked about. And he did look intimidating enough now for Italy to take a few steps away, just in case.

“Maybe we should all just calm down,” Feliciano suggested, his voice wavering.

Poland scoffed, crossing his arms. “What a world. Italy is the voice of reason.”

“I'm not actually stupid,” Italy said. Poland shrugged noncommittally, and Feliciano swallowed his rising indignation. Now that Poland was here, they had to work together. No matter Prussia's thoughts on the matter, there was a much greater chance of success as a team. Ideally there would be different members of the team—there was of course another Germanic nation that Italy would have preferred—but Feliciano was flexible. He would make it work, even if he had to ignore catty insults every day until they made it out of here. God knows he'd endured worse.

“Alright,” Poland said. “Let's hear your plan.”

Prussia gave Feliks a suspicious glance, glaring through his rapidly darkening eye. “I've got some guards on my side. I've only asked for information so far, but if we play our cards right, I bet we could smuggle ourselves out of here.”

Feliks' face was blank. “That's it?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Gilbert snapped.

“Your plan is to save yourself? Russia is holding the Baltics hostage and hunting down the rest of Eastern Europe, and trying to take over our countries, too. He has bombed half the world and he still has more missiles. Oh, and he's putting people in gulags again.” Poland extended his arms, gesturing to their surroundings. “And your plan is to fuck off somewhere and hide?”

“Are you suggesting an assassination?” Prussia said, tilting his head. “No offense, but I hardly think you're up for that.”

“Me, either,” Italy added quickly.

Feliks sighed. “It's not, like, ideal, but I can't just sit back while my friends are stuck with that lunatic. If you come up with a way to get them out, then I'll help you. Otherwise, you're on your own.”

Italy expected Gilbert to argue, but to his surprise, the man was nodding slowly, his jaw clenched so tightly that it had to hurt. “That's... not unreasonable,” Prussia muttered. Feliks rolled his eyes. “But you're gonna have to give me some more time to plan.”

“We have nothing but time,” Poland pointed out. “It doesn't seem like Russia is going to come for us any time soon.”

“I can help with the planning, too,” Feliciano offered. Neither of his companions answered him.

~

The train ride from Sofia to Thessaloniki was substantially shorter than the last train Romania had taken, and he spent the early morning hours after their arrival wandering the city. Bulgaria hadn't been able to sleep on the train, and Moldova seemed to be sleepy all the time these days, so the two left to find a hotel while Romania went off on his own. He found the city square, a lovely plaza on the waterfront filled with cafes and surrounded by cream-colored low-rise buildings. A low breeze swept across the square, where, to Andrei's surprise, a large number of civilians were going about their daily life as if nothing were wrong, milling around across the pavement. It seemed the stereotypes were true; the Greek were truly a laid-back people.

Andrei sat beside the sea with a cup of Greek coffee—it tasted just like the Turkish coffee sold in cafes in Bucharest. He sighed, looking out across the water. He had been thinking that they should go to Athens and try to find Heracles. No one had heard from him recently, but it wasn't like he'd been bombed—he had to be around somewhere, probably just laying low. Perhaps the nation would be able to help them, at least let them hide out in some coastal town. If not, it would be simple to find a ferry going across the sea to Turkey.

It was weighing on Romania, not knowing how far they would have to go, or where they would be safely out of Russia's grasp. He'd been thinking lately about the others who hadn't had the chance to run—Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia, Poland, Belarus. Especially Ukraine. He would never understand how Russia had been able to kill his own older sister—and for nothing more than resisting when he tried to take over her country. It was this, Russia murdering Ukraine, that had made Andrei realize that he had to run. Russia had never dared to do something like this before. He had changed. Gotten stronger, gotten worse.

Romania watched as a woman sitting alone at the table next to him stood, leaving her half-finished glass of iced coffee and a newspaper left open in the middle. Andrei watched her walk away, then went to take the newspaper. He couldn't read Greek, and the visible pages meant nothing to him. He flipped to the front cover, and his stomach dropped. The entire front page was filled with a picture of a smiling Russia, standing over the bloodied bodies of Norway and Iceland.

Immediately, Andrei slapped his pockets, only to remember that he'd left his phone in his home in Bucharest. He grabbed the newspaper and jogged over to what looked like a group of tourists, wearing sunglasses and drawstring backpacks. He heard them speaking English as he approached.

“Excuse me,” he said, interrupting their conversation. They stared blankly at him. “Do any of you speak Greek?”

The group all turned to stare at a teenage boy, who gave a shy giggle. “I do.”

Romania thrust the front cover towards him. “What does this mean?”

The boy's expression sobered, and he skimmed the headlines, his brows furrowed. “You didn't hear about this already? It's been all over the news.”

“I have been busy,” Romania said impatiently.

“So apparently Ivan Braginsky was trying to track down Emil Steilsson, to use him to take over Iceland or something. Braginsky ended up killing Steilsson and his brother, that guy from Norway, too. They're not sure about everything that happened yet, but yeah, it looks pretty bad. The Russian guy's gone crazy. This article says that the UN's been trying to contact the Norwegian and Icelandic governments but they don't wanna talk.”

Romania felt his heart racing in his chest as he took back the newspaper and turned to leave. He and Kristian weren't due to meet until this afternoon, but he needed to tell him. “Thank you.”

“Hey, there's a lady over there watching you. Do you know her?”

Romania jerked back to look at the boy, then followed his gaze. Across the pavilion, a woman was seated only a few tables from where he'd been sitting earlier. She held the same newspaper as him, the grisly cover image covering most of her face, and when Romania turned to look, she moved it to hide herself entirely. Only her long white-blonde hair, small frame, and powder blue dress were visible. Romania swallowed sharply.

“How long has she been there?” he asked quietly.

“I dunno. Hey, are you in trouble?”

Romania broke into a run, racing down a street parallel to the ocean. It had to be her. He was so naive, to think that Russia wouldn't have already been watching him—but how had she caught up so quickly? Was Russia having her flown on missions in some military jet? He wouldn't have been surprised. Andrei darted into an alley, but before he could take more than a few steps, a flash of silver shot towards him, and a buzz sounded next to his ear—a moment later he was pinned to the wall by his collar with a thin, gleaming silver dagger.

Belarus appeared a moment later, stalking towards him. She looked just as he'd remembered—she appeared sickly pale, with sharp, dark blue eyes. To someone who knew nothing of her, she would appear delicate. She was nothing of the kind. Romania reached up to pull himself free, but Belarus raised her hand—three needles were held between her fingers. Andrei paused, then slowly lowered his hands. He'd heard rumors about Belarus's needles. While her knives were mainly a tool of intimidation, it was said that she brought out her needles when she had violent intentions. Not many people ever saw them. Some were lined with tranquilizers, other with poisons—others were simply painful. Romania didn't want to become acquainted with any of them.

“Do not resist,” Belarus said quietly. “I know that your brother is here as well. Don't put him in danger.”

“He—he isn't,” Romania stammered. “He isn't here.”

Belarus's eyes narrowed. “You are alone? Then what of Moldova?”

“He's with Kristian. But not I Bulgaria. Somewhere else.”

Belarus stared at him, her dark eyes searching his. Andrei was not a good liar, and even though he wasn't actually lying, Belarus had to know that he was trying to trick her. She was an intelligent woman, and it wasn't like him to leave his brother alone. But she simply stepped closer, plucked the dagger from his clothing and said, “Very well. You will come with me.”

“Wait!” Romania blurted. “Are you here to take me to Russia? What does he want with me?”

“What do you think?” Belarus said, her voice dripping with bitterness. “He is recreating the Soviet Bloc and has requested your presence. He intends to take over your country. I thought you would have figured this out.”

“I did,” Romania said. “I just wanted to...confirm.”

Belarus gave him a look of pure contempt, grabbed his wrist, and started to pull him down the alley. Romania's mind was racing—he wanted to warn Bulgaria, but of course that wasn't possible. He couldn't get away from Belarus now. He was unarmed and no match for her needles and knives, and if he tried to escape, she would only incapacitate him—or she might let him go, only to watch him lead the way to his friend and his brother.

No, he couldn't do that.

He hoped that Bulgaria wouldn't be too worried. He wasn't particularly concerned about their safety; Kristian nould surely take care of Nicolae. As long as they could avoid any other allies of Russia's, they would be fine. Still, Romania couldn't help but feel a little guilt over being captured. And so quickly.

“Are we going to Moscow?” he asked.

“Of course,” Belarus snapped.

“How?”

“By jet,” Belarus said. She added snidely, “Brother can afford these things, you see.”

Romania was unbothered by the dig at his economy. It was true that he couldn't afford a jet; he was actually strangely excited about the idea of flying in one. If he could ignore Belarus's presence, and the fact that he was being taken to Russia, and his guilt over leaving Bulgaria and Moldova behind without a word, maybe he would even enjoy it. 

Well, maybe that was unrealistic. Maybe he actually felt a sense of relief—now that he had already been caught, he would never have to wonder again about when or how it might happen. It was almost freeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! A few notes:  
1\. I think chapters might be a little shorter from now on, since I'm getting kind of busy in school but I still want to update every week.   
2\. Romania's gonna be important! I know he's not a major character but I like him a lot :')  
3\. I was inspired to give Belarus needles by a really great Chinese drama I watched a few months ago called The Untamed. I highly encourage watching it! Wen Qing is a badass.
> 
> Anyway, here's some Italian alternative rock:  
Cosmetic - La linea si scrive da sola  
Fast Animals and Slow Kids - Annabelle  
Giorgieness - Umana  
Tre Allegri Ragazzi Morti - C'era un ragazzo che come me non assomigliava a nessuno  
Voina - Io non ho quel non so che  
I Giocattoli - Ailoviu  
I miel migliori complimenti - Ricalcolo


	6. Chapter 6

The rubble had to be cleared away, and hundreds of thousands of people gathered in the destroyed city of Rome, ready for the task. Spain almost hoped that the crowd would dissuade Romano from helping—God forgive him, but he was tired—but if anything, the determination of the Italian people seemed to motivate Romano. He first wanted to go to the ruins of the Vatican, but it was mobbed by volunteers who had gotten there first. Instead, he and Spain went to Feliciano's neighborhood, which had been flattened to the ground. Romano set out to work immediately, joining the group already working on the street, and he started loading rubble into trucks to be shipped away. Of course the most morbid part of the effort was the discovery of victims of the bomb, but Lovino didn't seem to mind that. He looked slightly apprehensive each time the group pulled another body from the debris, but moments later he went back to work, leaving the others to pray for the victims.

After a while, Antonio stepped away from the group. He wandered into the street with one of the plastic water bottles another volunteer had been handing out. The entire city was sweltering, and he was sweating profusely. He was surprised, not unpleasantly, that Romano was willing to work this hard in the heat. It was for an important cause, he supposed. The man was expecting to find his brother.

Among the low chatter from the volunteers, Antonio caught two familiar, female voices. He looked sharply down the street, and found two young women wandering casually down the street, glancing around at the destroyed buildings.

“Maybe we shouldn't have come here,” one of the women said, concern in her voice. “This is just disturbing.”

“You're the one that wanted to come at all,” chided the other.

“Cécile!” Spain called. The two women turned towards him, their conversation faltering. He jogged towards them. “Angélique, _dios mio_, I didn't expect to see the two of you here.” 

Monaco and Seychelles appeared stunned at first, but soon Angélique broke into a wide grin, her eyes lit with delight. She ran forward to meet Spain, bouncing slightly on her toes. “Spain! We didn't know you were here, either! This is wonderful. And Romano must be here, too.”

Spain laughed softly. “Yes, he's here, but I'm warning you, he has been in an unpleasant mood lately.”

Monaco peered past him at the volunteers, frowning. “This is Veneziano's neighborhood, isn't it?”

“That's right.”

“Then...” Seychelles trailed off, her eyes widening as she followed Monaco's gaze. The entire street was destroyed; her thought process was obvious. The damage was not survivable.

“We have not found him yet,” Antonio said cheerfully. “If that's why you came here.”

“Oh,” Seychelles said. “Well, yes, that was sort of why.” She looked distinctly uncomfortable now, hugging her arms around herself. She looked towards Monaco with a troubled expression. For her part, Monaco met Antonio's gaze evenly.

“May we speak to both you and Romano?” Monaco asked.

Spain hesitated. “Ah. Well... I worry that you might be disappointed. He is not speaking to me at the moment.”

“Why is that?” Monaco asked.

“He thinks I am too pessimistic.”

“My goodness,” Monaco said. “I would think the two of you had been switched around.”

“But you're still helping with the reconstruction,” Seychelles chimed in. “That's wonderful.”

“Eh,” Spain said, shrugging. “It's a long way back to Spain.” There was a moment of silence before he added, “You can speak to him if you want.” He led the women back to the rubble, where Romano was knee-deep in debris, helping another man move a cracked slab of granite counter-top. After they tossed the slab into the bed of a truck, Spain waved him over. Predictably, Romano only glared at him in response, but a moment later he seemed to recognize Seychelles and Monaco. His face went blank, and he walked dutifully over to them.

“Lovino,” Spain said, before Romano could speak. “Surely you remember Angélique and Cécile.”

“Of course,” Romano said flatly. He folded his arms across his chest, looking over the two women. “It seems like you two made it out alright.”

“And you as well,” Seychelles said, beaming. “You're working so hard.”

Romano looked down at his feet, obviously trying, unsuccessfully, not to scowl.

“We wanted to ask if the two of you will be attending the meeting next month,” Monaco said quickly.

Romano glanced up at her, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What meeting?”

“I have not heard about a meeting, either,” Spain commented.

Monaco and Seychelles exchanged a glance.

“Cécile received a call from Belgium,” Seychelles said, obvious surprise in her voice. “Did you not?” 

“I have had to change phones a few times. And Lovino, eh...” Antonio looked towards the man, and found him glowering at him. “He has not been staying up-to-date with his messages.”

“It's a good thing we ran into you, then!” Seychelles exclaimed. “It's an important meeting. Belgium is hosting it in Brussels, and I'm sure she would want both of you to come.”

She were met with silence. Romano stared at her; it was unclear if he'd comprehended her words. Spain highly doubted the man wanted to go to Belgium, not even to see Anouk. He was set on rebuilding, and Antonio was intimately familiar with his stubbornness.

“We should be able to clear away his apartment by next month,” Spain pointed out.

Romano tensed. “Maybe,” he muttered.

“I certainly hope you'll consider attending, if so,” Monaco said evenly. “We're going to be discussing counteractive measures against Russia and China. I doubt you would want to miss that.”

Romano turned to look at her, his eyes wide. “Russia?” he repeated.

Seychelles nodded vigorously. “You must have heard about Norway and Iceland.”

“No,” Spain said. He was suddenly more interested in the conversation. “What happened?”

“He killed them in cold blood,” Monaco said. Antonio tilted his head slowly, mulling over the thought. Monaco gave a tight smile, watching him. “Who can say what he'll do next? I believe it's easier for him to strike in the midst of all this chaos. Perhaps if we regroup, we can--”

“Is this an alliance?” Romano interrupted. “Who else is involved?”

“Well,” Monaco said. “I'm not sure. That's why it's important to actually go.”

“I think it's a good idea,” Spain said. He smiled at Romano good-naturedly, ignoring the man's demeanor. He didn't for a moment believe that a haphazard alliance between the nations would deter Russia or China, but he did want to see Anouk again. He guessed Jan would be there too, and likely others; it would be good for him, and for Romano especially, to meet up with other nations. If nothing else, the meeting would at least drag Lovino away from the baking, ruined city, back into civilization.

“I'll go,” Romano said, before he immediately turned, heading back towards the other volunteers. Antonio gave a small sigh. That had been easier than he'd expected, but still, it hardly went well.

“How nice,” Seychelles said.

“Should we help out here in the meantime?” Monaco asked, shielding her eyes with a hand as she surveyed the rubble.

“If you'd like to,” Spain said. “It's hard work.”

“That's no problem at all,” Seychelles assured him.

“There are bodies in the rubble, also.”

Seychelles faltered at that. Monaco put an arm around the girl's shoulders, squeezing her to her side.

“We'll get used to it,” Monaco said.

“Quicker than you think,” Spain agreed.

Seychelles still appeared unsettled.

~

The flight to Moscow was short, but soon after their arrival Romania and Belarus were met by Russian agents and escorted into a small car with tinted windows. A guard's hand was on Romania's shoulder nearly until the car doors locked with a click—it seemed they were afraid he'd try to run, which was almost funny. He hadn't been to Moscow in decades; where would he go? He sat in the backseat next to Belarus during the drive, but she never spoke to him or so much as glanced away from her window. The streets outside must have been familiar to her. Andrei, meanwhile, had no idea where they were, and he tried not to let it make him nervous.

He and Belarus were both taken through security before they could properly enter Russia's absurdly large house. Belarus was merely patted down and waved at with a metal detector wand before she was allowed to move on, but Andrei was given an entirely new set of clothes, and the contents of his pockets—an embarrassingly small number of euros and a few sweets he carried around for Moldova—were confiscated. He was all but pushed into a hallway and the door was locked behind him, and finally he found himself alone—until he noticed a head peeking around from the corner ahead and huge, violet eyes watching him.

As soon as Romania noticed, the head disappeared.

Romania paused, then began to walk towards the corner. “Latvia? Is that you?”

“No,” Latvia's voice squeaked.

Andrei stopped. “Raivis, what's wrong? You can come out.”

“Um,” Latvia said. “You aren't angry?”

“What would I be angry about?” Romania asked, bemused.

There was a brief silence, and then Estonia's voice snapped, “I told you she was lying!”

“How was I supposed to know?” Latvia wailed. “Why would she lie about something like that?”

Andrei rounded the corner and found Latvia cowering just behind the corner, and Estonia huddled behind him. They both flinched, but quickly straightened, and Estonia pushed past Latvia, seeming eager to explain.

“We heard that you were coming and came to greet you, but Belarus passed by and said that you were very angry about being caught and even hit one of the officers,” Estonia said. He leaned forward, his brows furrowed. “She said you took him out in one punch.”

Romania frowned. “Well, I'm still breathing, so that definitely did not happen.”

“That's what I said!” Estonia insisted. “I think any of us would bounce off of Russian officer anyway. Belarus just doesn't want us to talk to each other. It's like the psychological warfare. The woman is terrifying.”

“You don't seem to be upset at all, though?” Latvia spoke up. “That is little bit weird?”

“I think being caught was kind of inevitable,” Romania admitted. “It is unfortunate, but it happened to all of us eventually, right?” He glanced around the hallway, suddenly noticing the absence of a few other nations. “Where are Poland and Lithuania? I thought they were being kept here too.”

Both nations grimaced. They glanced at each other before Latvia said tentatively, “Lithuania is probably already in the meeting room. Now that you are here, we should go too.”

“Sure,” Romania said. He started to follow the other two down the hall. “And Poland?”

The two Baltic states exchanged another glance, and this time Estonia said, “Poland... is not here anymore.”

Andrei turned to stare at him in shock. “What do you mean? He was killed? Or did he escape somehow?”

“We don't know,” Latvia said, his voice rising in pitch again. “He disappeared a few days ago and Russia won't say anything. Belarus either. Lithuania is kind of upset...”

“We're upset too; don't be rude,” Estonia snapped.

“Right, yes, we are upset too,” Latvia amended. “ And also little nervous.”

“You don't have to lie about it,” came a biting voice. Romania looked ahead, and met Lithuania's dark, narrowed eyes. Next to him stood Belarus, looking as impartial as ever, but Lithuania's eyes were fixed on the other Baltics. “You two are just afraid it will happen to you.”

“Poland is my friend, too!” Estonia insisted. “I'm sorry he's gone, but why should I not be worried for myself? Is that wrong?”

“No,” Lithuania said. He gave Belarus a sidelong glance and said, “But you should know by now to be careful what you say. Russia is always listening. Isn't that right, Natalya?”

“I have told you that you can speak freely,” Belarus said, her voice monotone. She stared straight ahead. “I will only report if I see anyone trying to escape.”

Lithuania scoffed and walked forwards to grab Estonia's and Latvia's wrists, and started to pull them down the hallway. Before he turned, he gave a shallow nod to Romania.

“Welcome back,” the man said grimly.

Romania swallowed. He followed the Baltics down the hall, and glanced behind him to see Belarus standing in the same spot, her back facing towards them. Deciding she was far enough away, he leaned towards Lithuania and whispered, “Tolys, what's really going on? What happened to Feliks?”

“I really don't know,” Lithuania muttered. He released the other two nations' wrists, seeming satisfied now that they were away from Belarus. “And I don't really want to talk about it.”

“Okay, right,” Romania said. “Then what is the plan?”

Lithuania gave him an odd look. “Plan for what?”

“Well,” Romania said. He thought it would be obvious. “To escape. There must be a plan. You of all people, I thought...”

Lithuania laughed harshly. “There's no escaping, not this time. Not after what happened to Poland. I saw him one time before he disappeared; he told me what he did. You know what it was?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “He told Russia that he didn't want him to take over his country again. And now he is gone. Can you _imagine _what Russia would do if we tried to leave? And Belarus is watching our every move.” He said the last sentence bitterly, as though it hurt to admit. “We would not make it. And even if we do, then we are stuck in the middle of Moscow. You see what I mean? We can't do anything from the inside.”

“There is always something to do. We have all been through tough situations before, right? I'll think of something.”

Lithuania sighed, his posture sinking into a slouch. He seemed suddenly exhausted. “You know what? I hope you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even shorter update today! Sorry about that. I should have a longer update next week.
> 
> I wanted to add a mini playlist of Romanian alternative this week.  
Soare Cu Dinti - Robin and the Backstabbers  
Cheama-Ma - Alternosfera  
1000 De Da - The Mono Jacks  
Inima la Soare - Les Elephants Bizarres  
Oda (in Piata Romana) - OCS


	7. Chapter 7

After several hours hiking down the mountainside in silence, Hungary realized that Liechtenstein's stomach was growling. They hadn't eaten since the early morning, and Erzsébet immediately stopped, took a seat in the grass, and started to rummage through her bag. 

“We don't need to stop,” Liechtenstein said, sounding alarmed.

“Nonsense,” Erzsébet said. She pulled out a cloth bag filled with pogácsa, as Liechtenstein kneeled beside her, watching with wide eyes. “I hope you like biscuits.”

“I suppose I do,” Liechtenstein said. She accepted a pogácsa, and Hungary took one for herself. She'd baked them herself with pork rind, and she was excited to share them with the girl, but she found that Erika seemed hesitant. The girl had been unusually quiet, but Hungary hadn't found an opportunity to bring it up.

“Go on,” Hungary said. After a moment, Liechtenstein started to nibble at the biscuit. “I'll cook something properly when we find a spot to sleep. We'll have to eat this for now.”

“This is fine,” Liechtenstein assured her.

“I'm glad you think so! In the fairy tales, a mother would send her child away for an adventure with just a bag of pogácsa.”

“An adventure,” Liechtenstein said softly. “That would be fun.”

“Is this not an adventure?”

“No, yes, of course it is,” Liechtenstein said quickly. “But you are only training me because something horrible happened. I am learning to shoot and fight and unpleasant things like that. It would be nice to go on a journey just for the experience, yes? You must have gotten to do that before.”

“Many times. I never had an older brother watching over me, so I was free to do as I wished.”

Liechtenstein fell silent, and Hungary worried that she had hit a nerve—she was never particularly careful with her words, but she didn't actually want to upset the girl. Suddenly Erika sat heavily back into the grass, giving a loud sigh. Cautiously, Hungary passed the girl another pogácsa.

“I never thought about what that would be like,” Liechtenstein said. “Maybe I would have done more in my life.”

“Like what? Just adventures?”

“I don't know,” Liechtenstein said. “My brother, he does not really do much... I mean, of course he is very busy, but he doesn't really do anything for fun. I don't know what everyone else has been doing. Do you know what I mean?”

Hungary nodded. “You don't know what  _you _ do for fun.”

“Maybe I should have just been a normal girl,” Erika murmured. “I would have grown up eventually. Made my own decisions, had my own life. Being young forever... maybe it is not as wonderful as everybody expects.”

“You want to be a human?” Hungary asked, letting surprise slip into her voice. It wasn't the first time she'd heard another nation say such a thing, but it had never been from one as peaceful, as full of life as Liechtenstein. The girl nodded seriously in response, as though she truly were world-weary. “Excuse me, but you are... definitely not a child in human years.”  Erzsébet hesitated, debating whether to state the obvious. “You would be dead by now.”

“What kind of life is nuclear war?” Liechtenstein said.

The question left Hungary without an answer.  In reality, Erzsébet was hardly young either, and she had seen her country through struggles, atrocities, revolutions. She had still always held a sense of optimism towards the future, a true belief that the quality of life of her people was always on the rise, and peaceful times were just around the corner. This determination had never failed her before.

“Well,” Hungary said finally. It occurred to her that Erika had probably not been expecting an answer at all, but she cleared her throat and spoke anyway. “I surely never wanted to find out.”

“Do you think we can change anything?” Liechtenstein asked.

“I would not be training you if I thought we were hopeless.”

“Oh,” Liechtenstein said. She seemed satisfied with that, and reached for another biscuit. Hungary handed over her bag—the girl must have been starving, but she never complained once. She had a great resolve, hidden in a quiet, polite persona.

“Erika, listen to me,” Erzsébet said.

“Hm?” Liechtenstein turned towards her, her pale eyes wide.

“I'm not training you for you to go home and do nothing, either.”

“Oh. I thought that is exactly why you were training me. Brother said--”

“Your brother doesn't understand. I know you were sickly when you went to live with him, but I believe you _have _grown up. You are a brave girl. You can do better than sitting at home making tea.”

Liechtenstein blinked slowly. “You think so?”

“Of course,” Hungary said. She broke into a smile. “I would not be training you if you were a loser, either.”

~    


Belgium was hurrying down the hallway in the Espace Léopold when Netherlands appeared around a corner and caught her by the arm. Before she could greet him, Jan pushed his phone in front of her face. Belgium held a hand to her chest, startled.

“Have you seen this?” Jan asked gruffly.

“Give me a minute,” Anouk said, squinting at his screen. It was a picture of several people, whom she recognized immediately—Russia stood at the back, towering over Belarus, who stood beside him, and Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, and Romania were standing around them, obviously uncomfortable. Every expression was grim aside from Russia's—the man appeared pleased with himself. The nations were in a nondescript room; Belgium knew it was probably in Moscow. She pushed the phone out of her face and frowned at her brother.

“What is this? Isn't Poland supposed to be with them? And why is Romania there?”

“That's what I want to know,” Netherlands said. “I hadn't heard that Russia had caught anyone else.”

“Well, I suppose he's being secretive about it. Hm. I should check in with Zuzana and--”

“Don't call them,” Netherlands interrupted.

“Why ever not?”

“We should be secretive, too. You're already holding a meeting in the most predictable city in Europe. You don't need to get involved with affairs over there. You never know who's siding with Russia. For all we know, that's what Romania did.”

Anouk crossed her arms; she was starting to become annoyed with her brother's suspicion, although of course she'd already known he was over-cautious. He just hadn't accused her friends of betrayal in quite a while.

“What, and you're assuming Czechia and the rest of the continent are Russian spies now?” She sighed. “Where is Luc? He would be more reasonable about this.”

“He's not used to doing anything important,” Jan snapped. “That's why he's so agreeable.”

“My god, you're in a terrible mood today. If you'd like to talk about the meeting, we still have planning left to do; otherwise I'm going to get to work. Excuse me.” Belgium set off past him, and a moment later her brother gave an exasperated sigh and jogged down the hall to catch up with her.

“Have you finished the guest list?” Netherlands asked.

“Almost. There's been no word from Mathias, correct?”

“He's still unaccounted for, yeah. Finland and Sweden don't want to come, either.”

“That's fine,” Belgium said. “We have plenty of people coming.”

“Anybody new?”

“Monaco and Seychelles will be coming with Spain and Romano. Britain, France, Canada, America... oh, I did get a call from Germany this morning. He's decided to attend after all.”

Netherlands scowled. “That won't end well, Anouk.”

“Why is that?”

“Aside from the fact that it's Ludwig, I don't think he should be left alone with Romano.”

“They won't be alone,” Belgium said primly.

“You know what I mean,” Netherlands muttered.

“We all have to be adults now, Jan. The fate of the world is at stake; I'm sure Romano can control himself for a few hours. He was well-behaved at times in the past, I'm sure you remember. He's capable of it.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“You have too little faith in humanity,” Belgium declared. “Work on that, would you? I really do have to be on my way. Let me know if you hear from anyone else. And do tell me if you see Luc. I have no idea where he's gone.”

“Gambling, maybe,” Jan said.

“That's your brother; don't be rude.”

“I wasn't.”

“For the love of god, if you don't cheer up I'll make you speak at the meeting.”

Netherlands was silent for a long moment. “You have a nice day, Anouk.”

Belgium laughed quietly as she continued down the hall.

~

Bulgaria was nibbling at a shish kebab, listening to Cyprus' and Greece's rambling conversation about philosophy and the war and other topics he couldn't quite follow, when Turkey—who had gone uncharacteristically quiet as well, seemingly bored by the turn of events—cried out, leaping to his feet. He pointed wildly past the firepit and the wooden benches, where Kristian had left Moldova to play on the beach with Turkish Cyprus while the adults prepared the food.

“Stop that, you little fucker!” Turkey shouted. Kristian turned around, and saw with a sinking heart that Nicolae had tackled the other child, and seemed to be holding him down in the dirt while Turkish Cyprus flailed at him. Turkey raced over and hauled Moldova off the ground, tossing him easily over his shoulder. He ignored Moldova's protests, instead watching as Turkish Cyprus rose shakily to his full, meager height, seeming scandalized.

“He bit me!” Turkish Cyprus squealed.

“He what?” Turkey barked. In one fluid motion, he grabbed Moldova by the ankles and started to dangle him upside down, giving him a few shakes as he demanded, “What the hell did you bite him for?”

Bulgaria flinched as Moldova screamed in alarm. He rushed over and took Moldova into his own arms, stepping out of Turkey's reach and turning the boy right-side up. He held the child at arm's length and said despairingly, “Nicolae, why would you bite Kuzey? He's smaller than you.”

Moldova stuck out his tongue, kicking his feet unsuccessfully at Bulgaria.

“I think I'm bleeding,” Turkish Cyprus complained. “He has fangs...”

“Why does your kid have fangs?” Cyprus exclaimed. Bulgaria turned on his heels, dropping Moldova inelegantly in the process. Cyprus and Greece were still seated on the benches, watching the scene unfold, and Greece was gnawing on a shish kebab, entirely unbothered.

“He's not my kid,” Bulgaria said in a rush. “And he can't help the teeth.”

“He can help the biting,” Greece muttered.

As Turkey walked back to rejoin the group, he chimed in, “Really, Kristian, we invite you to stay with us and as soon as you get here, your brat starts mauling the other brat.”

“Please have some compassion,” Bulgaria begged. “Andrei would be here to take care of his little brother, but he has been captured by the Russians. I have to watch over Nicolae while he's gone, even if he is a little difficult these days...”

Turkey let out an abrasive laugh. “I wish Russia would come here! Don't tell America this, but I've still got a few of his missiles in my country aimed right at the fat Rusça bastard's capital.”

Bulgaria's eyes widened in horror. “What?”

“He's joking,” Cyprus said quickly.

“He does that a lot,” Greece said. “It's not really ever funny.”

“None of you fuckin' know if I'm joking,” Turkey said.

Cyprus ignored the older man, turning towards Kristian with a sympathetic expression. “Please don't take what the others say to heart. You are always welcome in my country, and Heracles feels the same, of course.”

“Do I?” Greece said listlessly.

“Yes,” Cyprus said. “But Bulgaria, please do keep your child under control.”

“I'll work with him,” Kristian promised. Inwardly, he didn't think Nicolae would listen to him, even if he tried to talk to him about his behavior. The child had always been so polite before, but now... Suddenly, he realized that Moldova was no longer standing beside him. He must have run off quietly while Bulgaria was speaking with the others. He was slightly relieved—at least the boy wasn't chasing Kuzey. “He isn't usually like this. I think he's worried about Andrei.”

“That makes sense,” Cyprus said, nodding. “Of course he misses his brother. It's a very sad situation.”

“And Russia is scary as hell,” Greece muttered.

“Right,” Bulgaria said. “He hasn't been talking to me very much, but he must be frightened of being caught by Russia as well.”

Hurried footsteps approached the group, and Moldova hurtled back into view, crashing to a stop with a glare that looked wildly out of place on his cherubic features. “I'm not afraid of Big Brother Russia,” he declared. “I would rather be with him than any of you.”

Bulgaria's jaw dropped. He was stunned into silence, but soon Turkey gave him a hefty nudge. “Eh? What's this kid saying?”

“Moldova,” Cyprus said soothingly. “What do you mean? You are safe here, and Russia is very dangerous. He captured your brother.”

“Big Brother Russia has never hurt me,” Moldova grumbled. “He listens to me. If I were with him, I could tell him not to hurt my other brother. All of you are useless. You are not going to help him.”

Kristian exchanged shocked glances with the other nations. He had no idea how to respond—he had never considered trying to save Andrei himself. Even if he were going to try, what would he do with Nicolae? He could hardly leave him with Turkey and the others, seeing how they treated the child. Bulgaria was sure that Romania would want him to make sure Moldova was safe, instead of trying to enact some reckless rescue plan. As far as he was concerned, he was doing the right thing. He had never realized that Moldova himself felt differently.

“Well,” Greece said dully, “He is definitely going to run away. Maybe we should discuss if we want to stop him?”

“_Yes,_ we would have to stop him,” Bulgaria snapped.

Turkey chuckled. “If the little demon wants to swim back to the mainland, he can go ahead. I wouldn't recommend it.”

“You are all horrible people,” Moldova seethed.

Cyprus shrugged, giving the boy a helpless look. “It's more that there is nothing we can do. None of us are strong enough to fight back against Russia. You must understand, it's not like we don't _want _to help.”

Greece scoffed. “Kostas, he knows that. He's just angry. He'll get over it.”

Moldova exhaled sharply, starting to blink rapidly—to Bulgaria's shock, it looked like the boy was going to cry. Nicolae turned and raced away from the group, running down the beach. Kristian rose to his feet, watching the boy sprint away with a conflicted feeling in his chest. He started to follow Moldova, but startled as Turkey clapped him across the back, then swung an arm over his shoulders.

“Hey, Kristian,” Turkey said. The man pushed a shish kebab into his hand. “Give the brat this. Maybe he'll stop being so cranky if he eats something, eh?”

“Oh,” Bulgaria said, looking down at the skewer. He glanced back up at Turkey, and for a moment, he thought he saw a tinge of concern in the man's eyes. “Thank you.”

The moment was over quickly. Turkey burst into a maniacal laugh, giving Kristian a sudden shove. “You better go catch him. Damn, that kid is fast.”

Bulgaria gave the man a small smile in return. “Will do.”

~

Prussia had been watching Italy poke sadly at his soup for five minutes when he finally had to interrupt. He knew Feliciano was used to a more luxurious life, but they would never be able to make it out of the camp if the boy didn't eat. Poland seemed to have already figured that out, or else he just didn't care about the low quality of their rations; he was dutifully eating the gray-brown vegetable soup without speaking a word about it. Prussia, for his part, had gulped down his entire bowl almost instantly to avoid as much of the taste as possible.

“Veneziano,” Prussia said. Italy gave him a miserable look, resting his cheek in his palm. “You need to eat.”

Italy gave a nearly inaudible sigh. “What's the point?” he said softly. “It's not like I'll starve to death.”

Prussia stared at him incredulously. “What kind of attitude is that? Should I slit my wrists just because I won't bleed out? You can't decide to stop living.”

Poland nudged Italy with his shoulder. “The soup isn't even that bad.”

“I don't care about the soup,” Italy snapped. “I'm tired of being here. I hate this, sleeping in the cold and cutting trees all day and being aimed at with machine guns all the time. I'm just sick of it. Is that so unbelievable?”

Prussia was startled, seeing genuine anger from Feliciano. He'd known the boy to be frightened, sure, but rarely ever full of such resentment. Even in a time like this, somehow he had never considered that Italy's optimism would falter. He managed not to show his surprise, instead narrowing his eyes and giving a _tsk _in fake disappointment. “What would Ludwig think if he saw you acting like this?”

“What does it matter?” Italy cried. “I'll never see him again. I don't know why you act like we'll get out of here. We don't even know where we are.”

Prussia was struck silent. Across from him, Poland stared down at his bowl. “You can stay here if you want,” he mumbled. “I'm going to get out and save Liet.”

“Right,” Prussia said, jabbing his spoon at Feliks. “We're gonna get out and find some help, and then we're gonna get the Baltics the hell out of there. They're depending on us. We can't just sit here moping around.”

Feliciano gave a sharp exhale, glaring at nothing in particular.

“West cares about you an awful lot, you know,” Prussia said, eyeing Italy over. “I'll tell you what would happen. It'd break his heart.”

“Don't say that like you care,” Italy muttered. “I don't know why you bring him up when he kicked you out.”

Prussia was startled again—that certainly hadn't happened. A moment later he felt his face heating, remembering the letter he'd written to Erzsébet before he left Germany. He had, to put it nicely, exaggerated a little bit following his fight with his brother. Hungary must have spread it around when he disappeared.

“Listen,” Gilbert said tentatively. “I don't know what you heard, but it wasn't like that. We disagreed on a few things and I left. That's really the end of it.”

Italy scoffed, then buried his face in his hands.

“Come on,” Prussia said. “Think about it. We'll be heroes. The whole world thinks we're dead, and then—_boom_, we show up and rescue some hostages and maybe cut Russia's head off, I don't know. Then we can all reunite with our friends and you and Ludwig can run into each other's arms in slow motion and--”

“_Shut up_,” Feliciano shrieked.

“No, keep going,” Poland said, cackling.

“Hey, now. I am fully expecting tears when you and Lithuania meet up again.”

“Obviously,” Poland drawled. “He will be so happy to see me.”

“Both of you are horrible,” Italy mumbled.

Poland fell silent, and Prussia watched the men across from him; Feliciano appeared dejected, while Feliks seemed simply unsure of how to interrupt the awkward silence, sipping quietly at his broth. Before he'd totally decided to do it, Prussia suddenly stood up from his seat at the bench. He walked over to Italy, grabbed him harshly by the sleeve, and hauled him away from the table. Feliciano had obviously lost weight; he was as easy to move as a child, but Prussia ignored that. Despite Italy's protests, Gilbert plopped the boy into a spot at a table of strangers before taking a seat himself and swinging his arm around Italy's shoulders. The other workers stared at them, their conversation having come to an abrupt halt.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gilbert said. “I hate to interrupt, but my friend here is feeling very pathetic. Do you have any advice for him?”

The silence stretched until finally, one of the men huffed and said, “Go have a fuck.”

Gilbert burst into rasping laughter, and clapped Feliciano harshly across the back. “Hey, that's not a bad idea.”

Italy stared wide-eyed at the ground, his cheeks rapidly reddening. The other workers chuckled, and Prussia caught a few of the women eyeing him with obvious interest. Unfortunately for them, Gilbert didn't actually think Feliciano had it in him.

“Maybe something a little tamer,” Prussia said.

An older women spoke this time, her expression softer than the others'. “Do you know how to sing, child?”

“Yes,” Italy mumbled, still flushing vividly.

“Let's teach him a song,” the woman said, glancing around the table for support. Some of the other workers groaned in response, but a few nodded, and a few of the men shouted out phrases Gilbert recognized as Russian folk songs. He couldn't help but smile, even as Italy nearly burned up beside him. This was what he'd been hoping for; what he knew would happen. Even in the worst of times, people would sing.

“I've heard many songs all around the land,” an older man sang in Russian. A haphazard chorus of voices joined in as he continued, “But my memory holds just one of them all.”

“That's the song of the workers,” Prussia chanted. Of course he knew the words. As he sang along with the group, he heard the song grow louder; workers at tables all around him were joining in, singing along to the rough melody. Italy raised his head, looking around the clearing, his eyes gone wide. Poland sat alone at their table, but even he had joined in. It was obvious that Feliciano hadn't expected this. Prussia had learned long ago what demoralization felt like; at some times, it could be difficult to believe that anyone could feel anything but despair.

Sometimes, you had to be reminded that life would go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! A longer chapter as promised. Thanks again for reading, guys :)
> 
> I wanted to make a mini Spanish alternative playlist today!  
Eterno - Mundaka  
El Tesoro - El Mato a Un Policia Motorizado  
Expropiese - Los Mesoneros   
Hbls Mucho - Vanessa Zamora  
Ausencia - Jenny and the Mexicats  
El Alma y el Cuerpo - Bomba Estereo  
Tarde - Siddhartha  
Hasta la Raiz - Natalia Lafourcade


	8. Chapter 8

Denmark answered the door, which neither Finland or Hong Kong was expecting, considering it was Finland's house and Denmark was still supposed to be missing. Finland froze beside him, and Hong was still as well, unsure how he was supposed to react. Meanwhile Mathias broke into a toothy grin, his eyes lit with delight.

“Timo!” Denmark exclaimed. A disgruntled Sweden appeared behind him, and Leon nearly shuddered as the man looked him over through narrowed eyes—the rumors were true; Sweden was a little terrifying, at least compared to Denmark, who liked to act like a child with a Pixy Stix more than was appropriate. Mathias turned towards Hong Kong as well, his smile never faltering. “Hey, and the kid, too.”

“Hey,” Hong Kong offered. Denmark held out a hand, and Hong Kong accepted; a moment later he was yanked forwards and Mathias slapped him on the back. Hong Kong stumbled back in a daze. That was probably going to leave a mark. Beside him, Finland finally moved, walking into the house to give Sweden a chaste kiss on the cheek that he was barely tall enough to maneuver. He turned, gripping Sweden's shoulder, and Hong Kong thought he looked almost afraid—no. 'Concerned' was the right word. As soon as the man noticed Hong Kong watching him, his expression went blank.

“No hug for me?” Denmark complained. “How long have you known me, and you don't wanna hug?”

Finland scoffed. “Don't say things like that, you sound like a pervert.” Still, he walked over and wrapped his arms around Denmark's neck, squeezing so fiercely that Mathias gasped.

“Christ,” Denmark squeaked. “You jealous yet, Sverige?” Hong Kong looked over to Sweden in shock, but the man merely sighed, as though he were unsurprised. Hong Kong looked between the three men, finding himself more confused than ever.

Finland pulled away. “Would you let Peter know that we have another guest?” he said coolly.

“You could tell him yourself,” Denmark retorted, but he headed obediently into another room. Finland and Sweden exchanged wary glances.

“Well?” Finland said, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. “What did he do?”

“Haven't asked,” Sweden muttered. “He's only been back for an hour, anyway. All 'e wants to do is eat cookies and play poker.”

“You're playing poker with him?”

“No, he's playing by himself.”

Finland frowned, glancing at the hallway Denmark had disappeared down.

“Um,” Hong Kong said. Finland looked vaguely startled, as though he'd forgotten Leon was there. “Isn't it a good thing that he's back? You guys look kinda... unhappy,” Hong Kong said tentatively.

“Don't worry about it, Leon,” Finland said softly. “Would you like to go and meet Sealand?”

Hong Kong realized that he was being dismissed. He could hardly argue about it in Finland's own house, so he wandered down the hall towards Denmark, stepping lightly so as to hear Finland and Sweden's conversation. He heard Sweden say something in a low voice, and Finland sigh; then they were drowned out by Denmark's boisterous voice.

“C'mon, it's not that hard,” Mathias was saying. “Look, you've got three of a kind. That's pretty good.”

“Can I have the cookie now?” a boy complained.

“Jeez, no one has any appreciation for the craft anymore. Fine, here you go.”

Hong Kong stepped into the doorway and found Denmark seated at a small table with a small blonde boy. Sealand was ruddy-cheeked and obviously bored, with his mouth stuffed full of cardamom cookie.

“Sealand, right?” Leon said. The boy looked up at him, startled; his cards were inadvertently strewn across the table.

“You're Asian,” Sealand remarked.

“Well,” Hong Kong said. He wondered if he should clarify that Hong Kong is, in fact, in Asia. Maybe it was too much to expect another kid raised by Britain to know anything about him. The guy didn't really teach his charges anything—definitely not manners. “Yeah.”

“He doesn't get out much,” Denmark said, reaching over to ruffle Sealand's hair. The boy grumbled, shoving Denmark's hand away.

“I get out plenty much,” Sealand muttered. “That's Hong Kong.”

“Don't pretend I didn't just tell you that,” Denmark said, switching tactics and rubbing his knuckle against Sealand's scalp. The boy yelped, trying to duck his head in a failed attempt to escape.

“Hey, Mathias. Could I talk to you, maybe?” Hong Kong asked.

Denmark paused, and Sealand took the opportunity to dramatically rise to his feet. He scooped the cards on the table into his hands, then flung them haphazardly at Denmark before storming out of the room. Hong Kong felt himself smiling despite everything, and he took Sealand's place at the table as Denmark smoothed his own hair, frozen eternally in a static-like state of being.

“I feel like I know what you wanna ask,” Denmark said, resting his cheek in his palm. With Sealand out of the room, the man seemed suddenly more tired. He didn't bother to smile.

“Well...” Hong Kong hesitated. “You were gone for a long time.”

“Eh.” Mathias turned away, staring at nothing in particular. “Didn't feel that long.”

“I was kind of worried.”

“That's sweet of you.”

“Finland said you were probably in Iceland.”

Denmark turned back towards Hong Kong, a dark glint of amusement in his eyes. “He knows me pretty well.”

“What were you doing?”

The floor gave an awful screech as Denmark pushed back his chair, sighing heavily. “Man, I can't do anything these days without the others calling an investigation. I didn't do anything important, and you can quote me on that. Did Timo send you in here to interrogate me, or what?”

“I was just wondering,” Hong Kong said, leaning away instinctively.

“What do _you _think I did?” Denmark asked. He leaned forward; there was something almost manic in his eyes. Hong Kong suddenly didn't want to know anymore, but he spoke anyway.

“I think Finland thinks you killed someone.”

Denmark nodded slowly. “Do you believe that?”

“Finland is pretty smart.”

Denmark laughed dryly, fingering the cards still in his hand. “He sure is.”

“Oh.” Hong Kong struggled to swallow; suddenly images of Norway and Iceland on the TV flashed in his mind, and he felt his legs shaking. It was true. Of course he'd known logically that all of the Scandinavians had killed before—anyone who knew anything of their history could figure that out—but knowing it had happened _recently_, with intent behind it, was something else. He wanted to bolt out of the room, but he forced himself to breathe slowly, steeling himself for what he wanted to say next.

“He, uh... he also thought you might go after Russia.”

“That was my plan at first,” Mathias said. “But I couldn't... well, I realized what I had to do. Don't get me wrong; if I get the chance, I'll tear his head off by hand. Problem is, he'd just as quickly do the same to me.”

His calmness unnerved Hong Kong. “You've given that a lot of thought, huh? Killing Russia?”

Denmark let out a burst of laughter. “If you _haven't_, you're the odd one out, buddy.”

“I've been thinking mostly about China.”

Mathias fell silent, looking pensive. “What, you wanna kill the guy?”

“I mean, it's crossed my mind,” Hong Kong admitted. “But lately I've been feeling like I just want to know why he did it. Why he'd agree to all of it, you know. I really felt like... like he cared about me and the others. It's just... strange.”

“You want a heart-to-heart, then.”

“I guess so,” Hong Kong said slowly.

“Well, I've got no plans for the near future and I'd love nothing more than to avoid Timo and Berwald at the moment. How'd you like to go to China?”

“I—what?” Hong Kong stammered. “It, um, took me a lot of time and money to _leave _China.”

“Yeah, but I can just fly you over. Easy.”

“I don't even know where he is,” Hong Kong said, bemused.

“Minor setback. Let's find your old man, eh? I wouldn't mind hearing what he has to say for himself either.”

“You'd really do that?” Hong Kong asked. He knew better than anyone how dangerous the mainland was—there was no guarantee they'd even be able to find Yao, and if a Chinese officer found them, they'd probably be handed directly over to Russia. Hong Kong wasn't sure if he was willing to risk it himself—he didn't understand how Mathias would agree to going seemingly on a whim.

Denmark grinned. “You'll owe me one.”

“Um, well, if you're serious... do you think we could make a stop in Taiwan first?”

~

At first, Germany had no plans to attend the meeting. He was busy enough trying to salvage what was left of his government, and he threw himself into the reconstruction projects happening all across the country. He almost enjoyed the labor; it was honest work, at least, and mindless. He didn't have the energy to think about anything but his work, and he was so exhausted by the end of the day that he fell asleep quickly and didn't dream. It was easy to forget that he'd had a life before, and that things were missing from it. The days blended together in a dreary haze.

The call from Belgium had snapped him out it.

“Oh! Ludwig, _mon _dieu, I didn't expect you to answer,” Anouk said. She sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him, which left Germany with the strange urge to hang up on her. “I'm surprised you didn't change your number. I heard that Russia was pestering you.”

“Not recently,” Ludwig said gruffly. “And of course I haven't gotten a new phone number. How would anyone contact me?”

“Oh, so logical as always,” Belgium said sweetly. Germany could never tell whether she was serious; sometimes her kindness seemed more like teasing at his expense. He had the sneaking suspicion that even she didn't know whether she meant it. “Have you gotten any other calls recently, then?”

“Not from anyone noteworthy, no,” Germany said. He figured she was asking about Italy and Prussia. Unfortunately, he was being honest. He'd heard nothing from Prussia since their disagreement, and nothing from Italy since... well, since the voicemail messages the boy had left him the night before Rome was bombed. As far as he knew, he was the last person to have heard from either of them at all.

“Well, that's alright. I know you must be very busy, but I have been planning a very important meeting with a few other nations. We will be discussing how to best face our, ah, little Russian problem.”

“You have plans to take on Ivan?” Germany asked dryly. “When did you become suicidal?”

“I know morale is low, but I truly believe we have a chance to save the free world if we work together!”

“That's a very nice sentiment.”

“Promise me you'll think about it, Ludwig?” Anouk asked.

He had no intentions of doing any such thing. “Yes, certainly. Pass along the details and I'll look them over. Goodbye, Anouk.”

Several days went by before he received an unmarked envelope containing only a postcard with a date and address written in code. True to his word, he did look it over; after discovering that she intended to hold the meeting in Brussels, quite a long train ride away, he sighed and put the postcard into a drawer to forget about. It wasn't worth the effort.

Weeks later, he witnessed Russia gloating over Iceland and Norway's bodies, and before the broadcast had ended he punched Belgium's number into his cell phone. Her phone rang for what seemed like eternity, as Ludwig held his own in a crushing grip, his heart pounding in his chest. Finally, the call went through.

“Ludwig?” Anouk said softly. Her voice was uncharacteristically low, despirited. “My goodness...”

“I will be attending your meeting. That is all.”

“Oh. That is--”

Ludwig ended the call and threw his phone to the floor. He paced around his apartment, his thoughts racing, before he went back to find his phone again. If he was going to Belgium, he needed to make preparations. He wasn't entirely sure his country could handle his absence, but they would have to manage somehow. He had been deluding himself. He had been trying to ignore the reality of the war—he had tricked himself into believing that if he only stayed in his place, minded his own business, he would be spared from any further torment. That wasn't the truth at all. Russia would stop at nothing. No one was safe, and someone would have to do something about it before the entire world fell into his hands.

He hated to admit it, but Gilbert had been right. Germany wondered what his older brother would think, watching him now. The idea left a pain in his chest.

A few weeks later, he arrived in Brussels at the two-star hotel Belgium had picked out for the occasion. A porter seemed to know who he was; the boy kept his head low and politely took Germany's bags for him, directing him towards the ballroom. He recognized Luxembourg standing by the doorway, and the man rushed towards him, forcing him into a vigorous handshake.

“Thank you so much for coming!” Luxembourg said.

“Yes, ah, that's no trouble...”

“Luc,” Luxembourg said.

“Right. If you don't mind me asking, has anyone else already arrived?”

“Everyone else, actually.”

“Oh,” Germany said, startled. “How rude of me. Excuse me, then,” Germany said, pushing past Luxembourg to enter the ballroom. Almost immediately, he caught Romano's eyes. His heart sank. The man was speaking to Spain, but he rose abruptly to his feet and stormed towards Germany. Romano wasn't exactly a large man, but Ludwig felt a tinge of trepidation—he'd heard the man wasn't completely in his right mind. Luckily, Spain seemed to realize the situation and followed hurriedly after Romano.

“No one warned me the fucking potato sucker was coming,” Romano spat, stepping close to Ludwig to glare at him. Germany backed away in alarm.

Spain genially pulled Romano back a few steps. “Hello, Ludwig,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“I have been better,” Germany said, eyeing Romano warily. “And you?”

“Oh, about the same.”

“Why are you making small-talk with him?” Romano cried, turning to direct his rage at Spain.

“Ludwig has done nothing to me, or you either,” Spain said, tilting his head slightly. He appeared much the same as Germany remembered him; outwardly cheerful with not a single hint as to his inner thoughts. The man glanced over to Germany once again. “I suppose you have gotten to no word from Gilbert either?”

“Unfortunately not.”

Romano yanked Spain's sleeve, pulling him off to the side, where he started to seethe at him, barely keeping his voice low enough for Germany not to hear. Spain seemed used to it; he patted Romano's hair gently, which only seemed to make Romano more upset. Germany considered simply leaving the room, perhaps even the city entirely, but soon enough Romano stormed away and Spain approached him again.

“I apologize for him,” Spain said. “God, I have been doing that a lot lately. Ah, my work is never done.”

“Is he alright?” Germany asked slowly.

“Just a little bit more moody than before,” Spain said, shrugging. “He is not handling Feliciano's death very well. I can hardly blame him for that.”

The words hit Ludwig like a sudden plunge into ice water. He couldn't help but fall into the same line of thoughts he'd been trying to avoid for such a long time—what Italy must have experienced in his last moments on Earth. How Germany had left him to endure it alone.

“You... found him?” Germany asked, his voice coming out as a whisper.

“No!” Spain said, gesturing insistently; he seemed to have realized the severity of what he'd said. “No, no, actually we cleared his entire apartment building away and found nothing. As far as I can tell, he was not even home. I guess a better word is 'disappearance'? I think Romano was hoping for some closure, to actually find him, but you see how it is...”

“He wasn't there,” Germany said.

“Yes, but—well, I wasn't sure how to tell you this, because I have been trying to convince Romano not to get his heart set on anything either... I just don't want anybody to be disappointed,” Spain said carefully.

“I... understand. Thank you, Antonio. I'll keep that in mind.”

“No problem! I wanted to ask you a question, if that's alright? Now that Romano is not around to throw a temper tantrum.”

“Sure.”

“Is it true, what everyone is saying about you and Gilbert?”

Germany frowned; he was struggling to control his thoughts, to focus on what Spain was saying. “What did you hear?”

“He told Hungary that you threw him out, and then Hungary told the rest of the world the same thing.”

“Oh.” Germany hesitated, thinking back to the argument. If only he had listened to Prussia back then... things would be different now. His brother would not be missing, and Ludwig would not have let himself become so detached from reality. If there was one thing Gilbert was good at, it was keeping him grounded. “That is a bit of an exaggeration. I told him that if he disagreed so heavily with my decision, he was welcome to leave. He took the offer.”

“Ah,” Spain said. “He has always been very opinionated. May I ask what exactly he disagreed with?”

Germany swallowed sharply. His decision back then seemed so idealistic now, naive. He was embarrassed to admit what he'd said. “I wanted to remain neutral, while he believed that was foolish.”

“I see.” Thankfully, Spain didn't offer his own opinion, and before either man spoke again, Belgium and her brothers appeared at the front of the room, tapping a microphone. Spain headed back for his own table, where Romano was scowling, leaned back in his chair. At another table, France and Monaco were excitedly gesturing to each other in what Germany quickly recognized as sign language. Canada, England, and Seychelles were also crowded around the table, and with a shock Germany recognized America in a wheelchair, watching the other nations communicating with wide eyes.

“Hello, everyone!” Belgium said. Beside her, Netherlands stood stoically with a cigarette in his mouth, while Luxembourg waved at the small gathering of nations. “I am very sorry for the delay, but my agents have just finished a final security check of the building. We have been given the all clear. If you would all be seated, we can begin the meeting.”

Germany chose a table across the room from Romano and Spain, and sat alone. He was beginning to wonder if this had been a good idea after all, if he was going to be assaulted with constant questions and very possibly assaulted physically by Romano. He forced himself to remember the moment he'd realized what had happened to Japan, and then Italy; the shock and pain that had overpowered him. He remembered Russia's unplanned broadcast, appearing unbothered with blood pouring down his face, announcing his murder of two nations without an ounce of shame.

This had all gone too far. Even if Ludwig couldn't save those he had already lost, if there was any way to prevent the madness from continuing, he had a duty to help. To redeem himself. 

~

Belarus arrived at the meeting room exactly ten minutes early, as requested. Russia was speaking to someone on the phone when she walked in, but he quickly ended the conversation and smiled benignly at her. Natalya gave a small smile back and took a seat in her chair, the one closest to Russia, but her mind was racing. Had Ivan begun to lose trust in her? As far as she knew, he had no reason to suspect her of any disloyalty. Even he couldn't read her thoughts. It was possible that he just wanted his official dealings to be private. After all, he was well above her on the chain of authority; it was just that he liked her enough to make her a subordinate. He was still the only nation in the building with any power or control.

“Brother,” she said. “Did I interrupt?”

“No, no. I was just finishing phone call with one of China's men. We have big announcement for today, but I will wait until everyone is here to tell.”

Belarus didn't like the sound of that, but she ignored it. She'd learned that there was no point in pressing him for answers, and certainly no point in worrying about his plans when there was nothing she could do about them. “Have you made any progress in finding Czechia and Slovakia?”

Russia's polite smile fell. “No. I believed that Prussia was going to meet our dear Czechia, but it seems that he truly did not know her whereabouts. Was just wandering around like tramp. And no luck with Balkans either! It seems like the further from my own territory, the trickier these nations are. Would you agree?”

“I would,” Belarus said. She could excuse the implication of her own weakness—the decision to go without a fight had been one of the easiest of her life—but he was also implying that Ukraine, who he had killed for standing up for her sovereignty, had been no trouble for him. Natalya gripped the sides of her chair, her fingernails digging into the wood.

“You know what puzzles me, Bela,” Russia said. He turned his violet gaze towards his sister, a faint smile still on his lips. “I have been struggling to understand why exactly you found our friend Romania alone. It is unlike him to leave behind little Moldova. And Bulgaria has been missing in action as well.”

Belarus met Russia's gaze evenly, although she felt a tremor in her chest. Perhaps he truly did have suspicions—she had no way of knowing what he really thought, but this turn of the conversation was making her slightly nervous. “I believe he was hoping to avoid attention. It is possible he brought Moldova somewhere else. He didn't mention the boy at all.”

“Yes, I am aware. I do not want to question him, either... would be very unfriendly. I have just been wondering about this, you see.”

Belarus had nothing to say in response, and she was spared of trying when the door behind her was pushed open and footsteps entered the room.

“Oh, no,” Latvia squeaked. “Are we late?”

“No, no, please have seat,” Russia said, his smile widening. “We are just ready to begin.”

The Baltic nations filed in and took their usual seats. Lithuania still sat beside Belarus, likely because he didn't want Russia to pose any uncomfortable questions, but she could see the tension in his posture, the way his jaw was set for the entirety of their meetings. He hated her now, and she had no excuses, no way to absolve herself of any guilt. She had chosen this path, and she had never expected it to win her any friends. Romania entered the room last, choosing the other seat next to Lithuania, where Poland used to sit. No one was going to acknowledge that, of course.

“Wonderful, everyone is here,” Russia said. He began most meetings the same way, as if each time, he were surprised. “I have a bit of fun news for you all. I gave little hint to Belarus, but now I can explain for real. As you all know, we have recently finalized official alliance with China. I have been in discussion with Chinese delegation to organize a celebration of such incredible occasion, and we have decided to hold a gala for commemoration. We will all be attending together. Exciting, no?” Russia said, beaming at the other nations across the table.

Belarus gave a careful glance around the table. Lithuania's expression hadn't changed, but the other three appeared visibly confused. Natalya didn't entirely understand the announcement either. Ivan was going to force them to attend some kind of party with Chinese government officials? Even for Russia, this seemed like a failure to read the room. Belarus would rather stay in solitary confinement for a week than spend an evening dancing with one of her brother's wartime comrades and pretending to be happy about their alliance.

“I am going to ask China to prepare dance partners, but first, Bela, I wanted to give you the opportunity to choose one of our friends here as partner. Not me, of course, but other friend.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Natalya saw Lithuania turn to look at her—he was probably worried she would choose him out of spite. And honestly, she might have done that very thing if she hadn't suddenly had a different, better idea. She straightened in her chair, meeting Russia's gaze.

“I will attend with Romania,” she said brusquely. She was aware of every single nation's eyes fixed on her. She glanced over her shoulder at Romania, and found him staring at her in open bewilderment. She offered only a tiny, threatening smirk. She wasn't going to give anything away yet.

“Excellent,” Russia said, oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I do love celebrations. And it will be so much fun to see Wang Yao again.”

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure I'd get this chapter finished today, but then I realized I'd much rather work on this than study for my history exam :-)  
Please leave a comment if you're enjoying the story, or if you have any questions, suggestions, or anything else! I would love to hear from you.
> 
> Today's playlist is some German indie/pop/idk?:  
Traum / Cro  
Hoch / Tim Bendzko  
Wir sind groß / Mark Forster  
Herz über Kopf / JORIS  
Auf uns / Andreas Bourani  
Wenn sie tanszt / Max Giesinger  
Nur ein Wort / Wir Sind Helden  
Zum Laichen und Sterben ziehen die Lachse den Fluss hinauf / Thees Uhlmann  
Ich sang die ganze Zeit von dir / Tomte


	9. Chapter 9

A sudden, urgent knocking at the door interrupted Canada as he got dressed in his hotel room. He finished buttoning his shirt and opened the door, finding England in the doorway, obviously agitated. Before Matthew could speak, England demanded, “Where's your brother?”

Canada blinked. “America? I left him in his room last night.”

“He isn't there.”

Canada's heart sank. He'd almost suggested that he and his brother share a room, despite Belgium offering each nation their own. It wasn't like Alfred was entirely dependent on him, and Canada had been looking forward to some time alone—but it was his responsibility to look after his brother. If anything happened to him...

“Have you asked around?” Matthew asked.

“I hoped he would be with you.”

Canada sighed. “Come on.” He and England headed first to France's room; Francis was alone and seemed by confused by their questioning, but he went with them as they hurried down to the ballroom. Most of the other nations were gathering for breakfast, and Belgium and Luxembourg were moving between tables, mingling with the others. Canada quickly pulled Belgium aside.

“Ah, good morning, Matthew. How are you doing today?”

“Yeah, great—have you seen Alfred?”

Belgium's eyes widened. “Not today, no. Has something happened?”

“I don't know yet. He wasn't in his room, and if he isn't here, I don't know where else he'd be.”

“I see.” Belgium hesitated briefly, then called over Luxembourg. “Luc, please collect all of the staff and bring them in here. We are looking for America.”

“On it,” Luxembourg assured her. He disappeared, and Belgium grabbed a cup from the nearest table, striking her fork against the glass. The quiet conversations fell away, and Belgium addressed the group. “Everyone, I don't mean to cause alarm, but I ask that you remain in this room until we figure out what is going on.” The nations exchanged glances; Romano sighed loudly and stabbed at his food. Minutes later, a small group of uniformed staff members filed into the room. Luxembourg appeared behind them, and Canada followed Belgium as she jogged over to them.

“Where are the rest of them?” Belgium demanded in an overly-loud whisper.

Luxembourg appeared stricken, running a hand through his hair. “No one else is in the building. I don't know, Anouk...”

“Where is Jan?”

“Still sleeping, I guess.”

Belgium let out a frustrated exhale. “Go wake him up!” Luxembourg flinched and quickly left again, and Belgium turned towards Canada, England, and France. “Well, gentleman, this may be a situation.”

“Some of your staff disappeared?” England asked. “Then they were involved?”

“It—well, it does not seem like a coincidence,” Belgium said, faltering.

Germany stood abruptly at his table nearby; he'd clearly been listening. “Spies were in the building the entire time.”

“Let us not jump to conclusions!” Belgium said quickly.

“Anouk, I see no other conclusions,” Spain interjected. “We must assume that America has been kidnapped by Russia's men.”

Monaco rose to her feet. “Anouk, you assured us this building was secure.”

“I was assured that it was! We checked the entire building, locked every door and window, checked the background of every employee. My own brother checked everything again just yesterday. I don't know how this could have happened!”

Canada felt a slow, creeping horror spreading through him. Russia had infiltrated their meeting—who knew what his spies had heard? What they were planning to do to his brother? “What do we do now?” he asked tentatively.

Belgium crossed her arms tightly across her chest, her brows furrowed in concern. “You all must leave, for your own safety. Go home. My brothers and I will deal with this ourselves.”

There was a long silence, interrupted only when Germany cleared his throat. “I cannot do that,” he announced. “I made a commitment to meet here and form a plan of retaliation. I will fulfill that promise.”

Canada put a hand on Belgium's shoulder, startling the woman. “Same here. If Russia really took my brother, how could I just leave him alone?”

England nodded, his jaw set in determination. “I'll be getting my brother back.”

“He _killed _my brother,” Romano spat. “That bastard won't get off that easy.”

Spain slung an arm around Romano's waist. “I have nothing better to do.”

Belgium looked doubtfully towards Monaco and Seychelles, and the women nodded at her in unison. As Belgium gave a shaky sigh, the doors to the ballroom slammed open, and Jan stormed into the room, nearly dragging Luxembourg by the collar.

“Jan!” Belgium exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

“It's his fault,” Netherlands growled. “He was in charge of security, and look what happened.”

“I did my best!” Luxembourg cried.

“Don't blame him,” Belgium said, running over to her brothers. She pulled Luxembourg free, and patted him comfortingly on the back. “Or at least argue about the blame later. The meeting is going to continue. We must move to another location.”

“Will this one actually be secure?” England asked dryly.

“I certainly hope so,” Belgium said. England scoffed, looking over at Canada. Matthew couldn't bring himself to respond. He was imagining what could be happening to his brother at that moment. It had been horribly smart to target Alfred, now that he'd been weakened—he couldn't defend himself, and Canada couldn't guarantee his brother wouldn't share what he knew with his old friend Ivan. All he could do now was hope America would make it out okay.

~

America woke up to a bucket of water being poured unceremoniously over his head. He blinked slowly, groggy from sleep, but shut them again, too tired to get up. He slumped down in his wheelchair, trying to ignore his throbbing headache. Suddenly a voice close beside him spoke harshly in words he couldn't understand, and then from across the room, a response—Alfred recognized that voice. He reached up to push wet strands of hair out of his face, and met the calm, violet gaze of Russia. The man was standing in front of his desk, and beside him was Lithuania, standing stiff with his hands behind his back, his eyebrows furrowed nervously.

“So you have woken up,” Russia said. His voice was oddly monotone—America remembered him as being quietly cheerful; he spoke melodically, no matter his mood. Something about him had changed, but Alfred couldn't tell exactly what. “Do you know where you are, America?”

Alfred glanced around the room. He didn't recognize anything about it, and he looked instead at Lithuania. His friend was shaking as he stood, looking at the floor in a firm refusal to meet America's eyes. “No.”

Russia's expression darkened. “I hope you have not lost all your mental capabilities, or this will have been complete waste of time.”

America smiled back. “I'm still me, you know. Even if Britain says I've got no long-term memory and think like an eight-year-old, what does that really change?”

Russia was silent for a long moment, his eyes narrowed in what seemed like pure disgust. Finally he exhaled sharply and gave a brusque order in Russian, gesturing to someone behind America's back. Footsteps retreated, and a door shut as Russia reached for an object on his desk. He retrieved a dented metal pipe, and Lithuania flinched. Tolys stayed by Russia's side, and America began to wonder what his friend was doing here. Could he not just leave?

“America,” Russia said, twirling the pipe between his hands. Alfred frowned—okay, that was threatening. “I have few questions for you. Nothing stressful; don't worry. But I must ask that you be honest with me.”

“Um,” America said. He slowly glanced between Lithuania and Russia. “Are you trying to interrogate me?”

“Yes. I would most appreciate your cooperation,” Russia said.

“That's not usually how interrogations work, I think,” America said.

Russia sighed, clutching the pipe close to his chest. He gave Alfred an unreadable look, then the pipe swung in a flash of silver and collided with Lithuania's back. Lithuania gasped and stumbled forward as America froze, horror flooding through him.

“No!” America cried. “How could you hit him?”

“I put another way,” Russia said calmly, lowering the pipe. “If you value our friend Lithuania's life, you will answer my questions.”

Lithuania jerked upright, his face contorted in pain. “Alfred,” he managed. “Don't--”

Russia swung the pipe again, hitting Lithuania in the back of the knee. Tolys cried out, falling forwards and landing harshly on his knees.

“I did not give permission to speak,” Russia said, glaring down at Lithuania. America felt his face burning as a wave of fury spread through him. He turned to Russia, clenching his fists against his sides.

“He's your friend too!” Alfred spat. “Are you crazy? What are you doing, man?”

“You are in no position to question me. Please listen carefully, America. When you were--”

“Over my dead body,” America grunted, pushing against the sides of his wheelchair. He'd lost his coordination and a lot of his strength, but he could still stand upright, and he was sure he could walk if he just tried hard enough. Slowly, shakily, he managed to rise to his feet, as his heart pounded like it would burst through his chest. Between labored breaths, he took a step forwards, catching himself when he started swaying to the side.

“What are you doing,” Russia said flatly.

“Look,” America said. “I know everybody thinks I'm worthless now. I can't even really argue. But if you think I'm just gonna sit here and betray the others while you hurt my friend, you're—you're fuckin' nuts, Ivan.”

“Please sit back down.”

“No!” Alfred took another lurching step forwards, pausing to catch his breath. Russia was watching him, squeezing the pipe with both hands, his eyes narrowed; for once, he seemed unsure how to proceed. Lithuania raised his head, looking up at America from where he kneeled on the floor. As Alflred met his eyes, Tolys took a rasping breath, and finally whispered, “Kill him.”

Instantly, Russia recoiled. His expression twisted, and he stepped forward, towering over Lithuania. “How dare you?” he screamed. Russia raised the pipe once again above his head, and a rush of adrenaline rocketed through Alfred's body. Before he could think, he was moving across the room, and he grabbed Russia by the hair and slammed his face into the desk, splintering the wood beneath him. The man shrieked, and the door opened instantly as soldiers ran into the room, but Alfred bit his tongue and did it again, finding strength he hadn't known was left inside him. Russia was screaming orders at the guards, and America knew he wouldn't be able to finish it.

He was hauled away from Russia, and inwardly, he knew he'd never get another chance to kill him. Two soldiers grabbed his arms and dragged him towards the doorway, and another brought Lithuania harshly to his feet to take him away, too. Alfred saw Russia slowly rise, his hands pressed to his bloodied features. Between the man's fingers, America saw Russia's eyes locked on him.

~

Italy woke to Prussia sticking a thumb in his ear and Poland clinging to his arm and wedged in bed beside him. He flinched and scrambled upright, wrestling Prussia's hand away from his face. He was vaguely aware of Poland grumbling behind him, but he turned the coldest glare he could manage before dawn towards Prussia, who was leaning halfway onto the mattress and holding an electric lantern in one hand. Feliciano asked flatly, “What are you doing?”

“Today's the day, Veneziano,” Gilbert said, smiling manically. His voice was several decibels above what could technically qualify as 'whispering', but Feliciano could tell he was trying to be quiet. “We're busting out of prison.”

Italy froze. Behind him he heard a sharp intake of breath, and then Poland wheezed, “_Today_? Are you crazy? We don't have a plan or anything. It's too damn early for--”

“If I told you before, you would have had even more time to complain. Get up, slap yourself or something if you're that tired. It's happening today—right now. Come on. Up, let's go.” Gilbert started to pull Feliciano out of bed, and Italy let him, his entire body feeling numb. He wasn't ready for this. Oh, god, he wasn't ready for this. He heard an indignant yelp as Feliks was hauled out of bed as well, and then Prussia banged a shoe against the nearest bedframe, repeating the noise until the creaks of mattresses started to emerge throughout the dormitory. The lantern light swung wildly across the walls.

“Listen up, losers,” Prussia bellowed. Italy wanted to crawl into a hole. “We're getting out of this shithole. That's not a joke, not a drill, no bullshit. If any of you want to come, be my guest, but I'm not gonna be a war hero. If you die, you die, got it?”

Poland gave a sharp sigh, and Italy quickly stepped forward to stand beside Prussia and said, more quietly, “He just means that you should only come if you can take care of yourself. If it's too dangerous, please stay behind...”

“You're all going to die here anyway,” Poland said flatly.

“Could you guys stop saying things like that?” Italy exclaimed. He felt himself starting to tremble. He hadn't felt this afraid since he'd first arrived at the camp, and even then, he'd had Prussia's reassurances that they would be alright. As long as they stayed put and stayed together, they were fine. Now, the future was unknown. There were so many ways this could go wrong, and they didn't even have a plan—at least not one that Prussia was willing to share. He looked behind him worriedly, catching Poland's glum expression lit by lantern light.

An unfamiliar voice called out, “Go back to sleep. You'll just be killed if you run off. Live another day.”

Another stranger scoffed. “Go die if you want, but shut up.”

“That's where you're wrong!” Prussia exclaimed. He slapped his chest, turning to search for the speaker. “That's the thing about me. I can't die. I refuse to!”

“Fuck off!” another voice cried. “You think you're special? We'll see your corpse scavenged by the wolves tomorrow.”

Before Prussia could respond, Italy tugged at his shoulder and leaned in to speak next to his ear. “Gilbert, I think you're just making them mad,” he whispered.

“I'm inspiring them,” Prussia retorted. “They'll come with us out of spite, just you watch.”

Poland gave a dramatic sigh and cleared his throat. “This is the final announcement; you can all go back to sleep afterwards and cut trees until your dicks fall off from frostbite, I don't care. If you want to get out of here, meet us outside in five minutes with something useful. That's it.” As soon as he finished speaking, he linked his arms with Prussia's and Italy's and dragged them through the doorway and into the cold night air. As soon as they were outside, he started swearing rapidly in Polish, and shoved the other two nations away from him so he could begin frantically rubbing his arms.

“It's too cold for this,” he groaned.

“How can you complain in front of Italy!” Prussia exclaimed. “He's Mediterranean, aren't you ashamed?”

“Go to hell,” Poland hissed.

“I'm also very cold,” Italy admitted. “I thought I would be okay, since I used to spend a lot of time in Germany, but it feels like we're at the North Pole...”

The mention of his brother struck Prussia silent for a moment. “Well,” he said. “Let's think very warm thoughts about our little useless Ludwig. Ah!” he cried out, turning to find a few people walking outside. When the doors fell shut again, about twenty prisoners had shuffled awkwardly into the clearing, carrying with them miscellaneous belongings. “My friends! You've made the right decision. Come on, hurry up. Get out here. What did you bring?”

The first few prisoners exchanged wary looks, and Prussia grabbed at the objects in their hands, holding up towards the moonlight to catch a glimpse of them. Italy wandered over, curious to see what they'd managed to hold on to in the dorm. One held a trowel, another a small decorative knife. It seemed the rest of them were merely carrying items they didn't want to leave behind—not, as Poland had ordered, anything particularly useful. Feliciano cast a doubtful glance towards Prussia. The taller man took a few steps back and surveyed the crowd, his expression unreadable.

“If anyone wants to go back, now is the time,” Prussia said loudly. He waited in silence as the prisoners murmured to each other, several sparing long glances back to the dorm. No one moved. Gilbert clapped his hands. “Very well. We're going to start moving, then. Stay behind me and don't be stupid.”

Prussia grabbed Italy's wrist and pulled him towards the edge of the clearing, where Poland was leaning against a half-dead tree, holding a palm over his mouth as he yawned.

“Can you tell us the plan now?” Feliks murmured.

“Not a chance, Polski,” Prussia exclaimed. He reached for Poland's wrist and pulled him away from the tree, ignoring the man's mild protests. “Let's go. Chop chop.”

“So you want us to just follow your lead, with no questions?” Italy asked hesitantly. “Even in a life or death situation like this?”

“Of course,” Prussia said. He gestured for the crowd of prisoners to follow him, and started to march into the woods. Italy hurriedly followed him, and Poland, seemingly resigned to his fate, was keeping up with their pace. “I'll tell you one thing, if that will make you feel better. We won't be running into my guard friends tonight. Anyone you see is an enemy. You understand?”

Italy swallowed harshly. “I get it,” he said. He hadn't had to actually fight in the better part of a century. Deep down, he thought the skill would come back to him quickly. He had been good at it back then, even if he liked to forget that part of himself existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I feel quite bad for Lithuania... I originally planned for the scene to go worse for him, but I couldn't go through with it. :( I guess I have a limit somewhere after all!
> 
> Today's mini playlist is some Polish music:  
Hej Hej! - Daria Zawiałow  
Mokotow - Lilly Hates Roses  
Melodia Ulotna - Mela Koteluk  
Granda - Brodka  
Postempomat - Dawid Podsiadło  
Kocham Byc Z Toba - The Dumplings  
Na Niby - Bovska   
Mississippi w ogniu - Organek


	10. Chapter 10

Hong Kong was confident that he could pass as a mainlander, since he was fluent in Mandarin and had spent plenty of time around Wang Yao. He wasn’t worried about Taiwan, either; Mandarin was her first language, and both of them certainly looked the part. Taiwan had brought suitable clothing for both of them, and with a bit of makeup and a haircut, they would hopefully be unrecognizable in a crowd of Chinese officials. The problem was with Denmark, who could never hope to pass as Chinese and didn’t speak a word of Russian. Despite his insistence that he could still pull it off, he eventually agreed to wait in their stolen car a few streets away from the building while Hong Kong and Taiwan looked for China at the ball.

It was only as they neared the front of the line to enter the building that Leon realized that every other guest was holding a golden, foil-pressed invitation. Two guards stood in the doorway, one Chinese and one Russian, and both were checking the invitations thoroughly before waving the guests inside. Hong Kong linked his arm with Taiwan’s, pulling her a step closer. 

“Mei-mei, I don’t think we can get in without an invitation,” he whispered. “I’m sorry; I didn’t know we needed them.” 

“Why would they spread that around?” Taiwan squeezed Hong Kong’s forearm, still staring straight ahead. “Don’t worry. We’ll get in.” 

A few minutes later, the couple in front of them disappeared into the huge, lavish hall, and Hong Kong and Taiwan stepped up to the guards. Both of the men looked them over with narrowed eyes, obviously noticing their lack of invitations. They exchanged glances, and the Chinese guard stepped forward. 

“Where are your papers?” the man asked coldly.

Taiwan took a forceful step towards the guard, glaring up at him. “What papers?” she demanded. “My brother and I were personally invited by Wang Yao. We have no need for flimsy slips of paper proving who we are. He’s expecting us--you can ask him yourself.” 

The guard tilted his head, staring down at Taiwan for several moments with an unreadable expression. Finally, he gave a shallow nod. “Very well. Come with me.” He turned and walked into the hall, gesturing for Hong Kong and Taiwan to follow him. Taiwan gave a satisfied smile and followed after him, and Hong Kong hurried to catch up with them. The inside of the building was enormous, with hundreds of guests wandering around and mingling. Hong Kong immediately recognized some of them; some were politicians he had dealt with before, and others were mainland celebrities. He didn’t recognize any of the Russians, and internally, he was hoping he would go the entire night without seeing Ivan’s face.

The guard led them quickly through the room, weaving around well-dressed guests carrying glasses of champagne. In the corner of the hall, a bartender was mixing drinks, and a small crowd was gathered around the countertop. With all of their backs turned, Hong Kong couldn’t tell which one of them might be Wang Yao, and he looked almost frantically between them, his heart starting to race. The guard made his way over to the mini bar and walked up to a man in a black suit with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He tapped the man on the shoulder, and after exchanging a few words, the man turned around in surprise. Hong Kong found himself staring at China, and felt frozen where he stood. Wang Yao hurried over to them, looking between Taiwan and Hong Kong with a bewildered expression, but he calmed instantly when the guard rejoined the group.

“Wang Yao, these children are claiming that you invited them,” the guard said. He was clearly expecting a dismissal, and Hong Kong almost expected the same thing. China was still looking over them with wide eyes, but a moment later, the man nodded quickly, turning to the guard. He swallowed sharply before speaking.

“Yes, these are grandchildren of an old friend of mine,” China said quietly. “I knew they were in Moscow, so I thought: why not invite them to such an incredible occasion? It should be, ah, very educational.”

The guard glanced between the three of them suspiciously, but finally, he gave China a shallow bow, which Wang Yao half-heartedly returned. “Then I apologize for the inconvenience,” the guard said gruffly. “Inform the staff beforehand next time.” 

“Yes, of course,” China said. He watched the guard leave, his brows furrowed, and then stared down at the floor, clasping his hands awkwardly. For several moments, none of them spoke.

“_ Da ge _,” Hong Kong whispered. The words slipped out of him unexpectedly, and China jerked his head up in shock--Leon hadn’t called Wang Yao “older brother” in years. Even Taiwan looked confused, and Hong Kong wasn’t sure what to say next. “Um--Wang Yao. We… we came to see you.” 

China nodded slowly. “You shouldn’t have come. It isn’t safe.”

Taiwan took a step towards him, suddenly seething. “Do you think we were safe where we were?” she hissed. “Because of you, no one is safe.” 

China held up his hands, making a soothing gesture. “Xiao Mei, please remain calm,” he said quietly. “I understand your concerns, but I am certain someone is still watching us. I can’t defend you if they take you away.” 

“When have you ever defended us?” Taiwan muttered. She still looked furious, but she took a step back, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. Looking over at her, Hong Kong felt confused at himself--shouldn’t he be as angry as her? He’d had to flee his home because of China’s actions, and he’d spent months worrying for his life as well as those of his people. And yet, seeing China face to face, he wasn’t angry. Mostly, he was disappointed. He’d been imagining a great, impactful reunion, with China tearfully begging for forgiveness. Instead they’d found the man waiting in line at a mini bar, and he was emotionless. Tired. 

“We came to get answers, Wang Yao,” Leon said. 

China sighed. “I assumed so. Really, children, you aren’t safe here. I’m surprised no one has recognized you already.” 

“Don’t worry about us,” Hong Kong said firmly. “We understand the risks. We spent a lot of time researching this celebration and figuring out how to get in. We know it’s dangerous, but we aren’t leaving now. We have questions.”

“Why did you become a dictator?” Taiwan demanded. 

China burst into laughter, and Taiwan looked dismayed. “Xiao Mei, Xiao Chun, you’re mistaken,” Wang Yao said, still chuckling to himself. “I’m sorry you came all this way just for that. You think any of this was my decision? My god, my only mistake was ever being civil to Ivan. You saw the way the guard spoke to me. I have never held any power here, and now my people have made me into a prisoner. I’m being watched at all times. You will probably be interrogated for speaking to me.” 

“I don’t believe it,” Taiwan hissed.

“_ Da ge _, how could you be a prisoner?” Hong Kong cried. “This is your country. I was told that you started the war.”

“I was a pawn,” China said sharply. “Don’t you understand by now that this is all a Russian game? Even my country is playing into it, and now both of you are, as well. Get out while you still can, if you don’t want to end up in prison. Did you come alone?”

“Denmark brought us here,” Hong Kong said. He felt numb. 

“Then go and find Denmark, and get the hell out of Russia,” Wang Yao said. He walked away, disappearing into the crowd, and Hong Kong reached out and touched Taiwan’s shoulder, stopping her from running after him. The girl was furiously wiping her eyes with her sleeve, her face reddening.

“I hate him,” she whispered. “Xiao Chun, he can’t get away with this.”

“With what?” Hong Kong muttered. He put an arm around Taiwan’s shoulders, leading her towards the entrance. “Mei-mei, there’s nothing we can do. You heard what he said. It’s really Russia who’s behind all of his.” 

“You think he was telling the truth?” Taiwan asked.

“I don’t think he’d lie about being powerless. He’s got too much of an ego.”

Taiwan smiled darkly. She’d stopped crying, and she took Hong Kong’s arm away from her shoulders, linking it with hers. “You’re right. Well, if Russia is really to blame, maybe we should pay him a visit, too.” 

~

Romania had never felt as uncomfortable in his life as when he arrived at Russia's gala, dressed in a custom-fitted tuxedo with his hair gelled back, and was escorted into the building by guards armed with assault rifles. Belarus was walking beside him, wearing a pale pink dress with a skirt so long and full it was a wonder she didn't trip and roll down the stairs. Her hair had been pulled into a high ponytail that fell to her waist, and Russia's stylists had given her long, dangling silver earrings and applied makeup so that her light blue eyes seemed even sharper than usual. She looked quite pretty, and under other circumstances Andrei might have been pleased to be her partner to a dance. As it were, he suspected that she had sinister intentions, and that made it hard to enjoy the occasion.

The venue was an enormous hall lined with tables offering various Chinese and European foods, and a small stage at one end, with a banner reading “Russo-Chinese Coalition Ceremony” in several languages hung above it. Hundreds of guests from both countries were already wandering around inside. Romania swallowed sharply, trying and failing to scan the crowd for any familiar faces. He knew China was supposed to be attending, but he wasn't sure it was a good idea to speak to the man, considering Andrei was more of a prisoner of war than a member of the coalition. The Baltics had arrived in a separate car, but they had long since disappeared into the crowd. Romania looked doubtfully towards Belarus as they walked into the party. He supposed he'd have to hang around her unless he wanted to stand alone for the evening.

“Let's just find the champagne,” Belarus said before he could speak. “I'm not going to do this sober.”

“Good plan,” Andrei said, and followed the woman towards the drink tables. They spent the better half of an hour polishing off far more champagne than they were probably supposed to, barely speaking to each other at all. The opening ceremony of the gala was blessedly short, although the speakers had to pause every few minutes for their speeches to be translated so the other half of the audience could understand. Just when Andrei felt he might fall asleep, he caught one of the Russian speakers mentioning a “surprise”. As he leaned forward, he realized that it was a Chinese announcer being translated into Russian.

“We are so pleased to present this gift to the Russian delegation, and we hope that it will be followed by much more cooperation and success.” As the speaker finished, a woman was walking onstage. She was olive-skinned, with long waves of soft brown hair and a deep green pleated gown. The woman turned as she reached center-stage and began waving to the crowd, beaming. The audience erupted into shocked outbursts as each of them, Andrei included, recognized Erzsébet Héderváry.

Romania turned to Belarus, but he could tell from her wide eyes that she hadn't known about this either. Eventually Russia clambered onstage and gave a muddled speech of thanks for the “gift”, which was of course a person, making the acceptance of it somewhat awkward to maneuver. Hungary cheerfully followed Ivan offstage and disappeared, and the audience was soon rushed to the dance floor. Romania walked stiffly to the middle of the hall where other couples were gathering. His mind was whirling—why in the world was Hungary here? As he faced Belarus, he found that the woman's expression had settled to its normal lack of emotion. It seemed she wasn't giving the situation much consideration.

A mid-tempo waltz began to play, and against all of his instincts, Romania took Belarus's hand and began to dance with her. Almost immediately, she spoke, her tone low and acidic.

“Don't get too confident. I only wanted to come with you so I could tell you something without a guard overhearing.”

Romania blanched. So that was her plan? He hadn't had any illusions that Belarus actually liked him, but that was somewhat harsh. “What do you mean?”

“I want you to tell Lithuania something for me. He is refusing to speak to me, but I think he should know. _ Only _him. The others could not keep their mouths shut to save their lives.”

Andrei hesitated. Belarus seemed sincere enough, although really, how could he tell? It was true that she and Lithuania weren't on good terms, anyway. He led the woman in a spin, as they'd practiced every day for the last several weeks leading up to the gala. “What do you want me to say?”

Belarus quickly glanced to either side, where dozens of other couples were finishing their own spins. Her voice was barely audible as she said, “Poland is alive.”

Romania forced himself not to react, biting his lip. He knew that Belarus had more information than the rest of them, but wasn't this too much? “You knew that all along?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Belarus snapped. “If I told Lithuania before, he could have done something stupid. It's been long enough now, it might be okay for him to know. Tell him Poland is in a work camp. Prussia and Northern Italy are there as well; they might be together. Russia has no plans to kill them for now. And he _ cannot _tell the others.”

Romania felt slightly dizzy. He stumbled through a step, and felt one of Belarus's tiny heels crush his toes. He winced, but Belarus continued to glare at him. “Okay, okay. I have a question. Do you know why Hungary is here?”

“She was presumably caught by agents, just like you and the others. She--” Belarus broke off, glancing to something behind Romania's shoulder. Before he could speak, she was spinning away from him, and a moment later Hungary crashed into his arms. He stumbled backwards but instantly, she tugged him forwards with a hand behind his back, roughly placed his hand on her shoulder and entangled the other with her own, squeezing tightly enough for it to seem like a threat. The woman pulled him closer, making him stumble again, and Romania realized in a rush of indignation that Hungary had started to lead the dance. She grinned madly.

“Hello, Andrei,” Hungary cooed. “Are you enjoying your quality time with Mr. Russia? You do look well-fed.”

Romania glanced around furiously, certain that other dancers would notice that Hungary had switched the roles. Luckily, they were only one couple in a crowd of hundreds, and no one seemed to be paying attention to them. Belarus had disappeared among the other dancers. “What are you doing here?” Romania asked flatly.

“Were you not listening? I was captured by some extremely dashing and capable Chinese officers. It's such a shame; I made it all the way to Moscow undetected.”

Andrei narrowed his eyes, searching her expression for any hint as to what she meant by that. He may not have particularly liked Erzsébet, but he had learned centuries ago not to underestimate her. There was no way she had actually come to Russia only to stumble into the grasp of the Chinese—and for what? Although he racked his mind, he could think of no reason for her to come. He knew that she was lying, but that was no help when he had no idea how to begin discovering the truth. Her smile never faltered. She seemed to be enjoying his confusion.

“Are you going to fill me in, or is this all just a joke to you?” Andrei said under his breath.

“Not a joke, no. You must forgive me, but I'm not sure whether I can trust you. You do seem to be suddenly quite close with Miss Arlovskaya.”

Romania's eyes widened. “Belarus? She chose to dance with me; I had nothing to do with it. She just wanted to tell me something about Poland.”

“How interesting. I have no way of knowing if that is true.”

Andrei rolled his eyes, sparing another glance at the couples around them. A thought occurred to him, and he said, “You must have gotten to talk to China. I heard he would be here.”

Hungary tilted her head. “Yes, I did speak to him. It was quite enlightening. To put it simply, I would be willing to let him live when all is said and done, although I'm never going to let him live it down.”

Romania turned back to Hungary, startled. “You mean you have a plan?”

Hungary leaned in, smiling viciously. “Someone has to come and rescue you, right? It isn't just me, though. The rest of the world is about finished with Ivan's delusions of grandeur. I was simply the only one willing to work from the inside.”

“It's a good thing he even wanted you back, then,” Romania said. He was trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to pretend he wasn't relieved. He pulled at Hungary's hand in an attempt to retake the lead role, but she barely moved at all. No such luck. He ignored her gloating smile—she could smirk all she wanted, but for once it barely bothered him. Finally, something was going to change.

~

Prussia had been right. The group left their section of the camp without running into a single other soul; either the guards were laying low, or they truly weren't around at all. They walked in silence for so long that Poland lost track of time, and the sun was beginning to rise when Prussia suddenly held out a hand, instructing the group to pause.

“I heard something,” Prussia said quietly. “Nobody move.” Poland glanced around him, but he could only see the trees, still draped heavily in shadow. Instinctively, he stepped closer to Italy and silently squeezed his lower arm. Feliciano glanced over, his brows furrowed in worry, but he said nothing. A moment later, Poland heard the noise as well. There were slow footsteps creeping through the woods, edging closer to the group of prisoners. Feliks swallowed harshly. There was nothing they could do but wait. He looked over his shoulder, making sure the prisoners were staying in formation, no one stepping out of line.

“_ Ukh _,” a man exclaimed. Poland whipped his head around and found a young Russian soldier stepping out from between the trees. The boy looked hardly older than Feliks or Feliciano, but he was armed with a large, heavy-looking machine gun. The soldier whistled as he looked over the group of prisoners, and after a moment, two other soldiers appeared behind him. The newcomers seemed wary of the group, but the first soldier looked almost amused, a faint smile on his lips. Poland realized that he was still clutching Italy's arm, and snatched his hand away.

“Hello, everyone,” the soldier said. “Now how did you get here?”

Prussia stepped forwards. “We are not going to make small talk,” he said gruffly. “Please step aside.”

“_ Oho! _ My goodness, this is something. You should all go back to the camp now, back to work, alright? There is no need for trouble today.”

“We're leaving,” Prussia insisted. “You are wasting our time. Get out of the way or fight back.”

“Fight?” The soldier smiled good-naturedly. “You have no weapon.”

“I don't need a weapon,” Prussia growled.

The boy looked over Prussia briefly, his head tilted in mild curiosity. “You speak Russian strangely,” he commented. “You are not from around here, are you? Would you not like to go back to your country someday? There is always a chance to go home if behavior is good.”

Prussia let out a sharp laugh, his voice cutting through the chilled air. “Yeah, that's unlikely. Listen, my fascist friend—for everyone's sake, you should step aside.”

“Aha, fascist—that is a good one.” The boy frowned, and his gaze landed on Poland. Feliks flinched. The soldier's eyes flicked to Italy, and he raised the barrel of his machine gun to aim it squarely at Feliciano's face. A round of gasps burst through the crowd, and Poland saw Italy swallow harshly. With a pang of alarm, Poland remembered that Feliciano didn't even speak Russian. He wouldn't understand what was happening.

“I see we will not come to an agreement,” the soldier said. He cleared his throat and seemed to steel himself before continuing, “Everyone must go back to camp, or I will shoot the little red-headed one.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Feliks shoved Italy behind him. He saw Feliciano's wide, startled eyes, and then stepped forwards, glaring at the boy soldier. “How can you threaten an unarmed man?” Poland spat. “Is a coward like you all Russia has to offer? All of these people are innocent. How dare you aim at them.”

The soldier's mouth twitched. “Please do not insult me,” he said softly. “Of course I serve my country. And if you are a prisoner, surely you have done something to deserve your punishment.”

Poland laughed bitterly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Prussia staring at him, stunned. “Do you really believe that? You could be on the other side right now. All you are is lucky.”

“I am warning you,” the soldier said stiffly. “Your group must return to the camp. I will shoot you first, please believe me.”

“I believe you,” Poland said. He swiftly raised his middle finger, gesturing towards the soldier. “Do it, if you've got the balls.”

The boy's jaw set, and his grip tightened on the trigger. Feliks heard Italy start to shout something, and then the shot blasted through the clearing and Poland fell, the sound ringing in his ears before it sharply cut out.

The next moment he blinked open his eyes to find Italy hovering over him, squinting down at him in concern. Feliciano broke into a relieved smile and started hauling Feliks upright, all before he had even processed that he was alive again. He blinked, looking around at his surroundings. His vision was blurred at first, but he saw that the prisoners were huddling in a tight group, looking stricken, while Prussia was on the other side of the clearing, standing around the motionless bodies of the three soldiers and inspecting their weapons.

“Are you alright?” Italy asked as he pulled Poland to his feet.

“Obviously,” Poland muttered. His head was throbbing with a dull pain, but the sensation quickly ebbed. This was no worse than any other injury from a human—physically, the effects would disappear in minutes. He glanced back to Italy, and realized with a shock that the boy's face was smeared with blood. As Feliciano noticed his gaze, he ducked his head shyly.

“Don't worry about it, Feliks,” Italy said quietly. “You look worse than me.”

Feliks brought his hand to his face. His fingertips came away painted with blood. Grimacing, he rubbed the back of his hand roughly against his cheek. Italy was watching him with a steady gaze.

“You didn't have to do that,” Italy continued.

“Well, he was going to shoot you,” Poland muttered.

“It's not like I haven't been shot before,” Italy said cheerfully.

Poland eyed the boy strangely. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure why he had taken Italy's place as the target. He would never have expected himself to do something like that—maybe for Lithuania, but not Italy. Perhaps he just couldn't stand seeing someone even more frightened than he was being threatened—that had to be it. He didn't encounter people like that very often. It must have triggered some protective instincts. He nearly laughed at the thought.

“Gilbert took care of the soldiers, by the way,” Feliciano said, looking over towards Prussia.

Feliks followed his gaze, frowning. “Did he kill them?”

“No. Just knocked them out. He was right; he didn't need a weapon.”

“That's good,” Poland said.

“Oh?” Italy said, raising his eyebrows.

“They are just stupid boys,” he found himself saying. “Maybe they can learn to be better than this.”

“Hm,” Feliciano hummed. “I hope so.”

Prussia broke into motion, sending a machine gun hurtling through the air until a young woman caught it, flinching as it landed against her chest. She sent the man a bemused look in return. Poland realized that most of the crowd was still staring at him in awe—of course. They had obviously never seen a person come back to life before. He hoped they wouldn't ask him to explain it; that was not a discussion he was ready to have so soon after coming back.

“Welcome back, Poland,” Prussia called in English. Feliks gave him another sharp display of his middle finger. Gilbert chuckled and made his way towards the prisoners, who were watching in silence aside from a few quiet, curious murmurs. He sent the second gun careening towards another prisoner, watching it land in the hands of an older man whose face instantly turned white.

“Only in self-defense, everyone,” Prussia called out. “No turning on each other, no Battle Royale today.” He jogged over towards Poland and nudged him hard with his shoulder, startling Poland as he tried to wipe the blood from his forehead. “Gun safety is important.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Feliks snapped.

“Gilbert, that's uncalled for,” Italy said quietly.

There was a beat of silence in which Prussia's wry smile faded, and Feliks almost thought the man was going to apologize.

“Eh, maybe you're right,” Prussia said, gesturing vaguely. He wandered off towards the old man with the machine gun, and Poland sighed. He looked down at his clothes, finding most of his front soaked in blood. Well, that was disgusting. He didn't have any other clothes to wear, though. Maybe it looked kind of badass.

No, it was really just gross.

Feliks felt Italy suddenly take his hand, and glanced up in surprise. Feliciano offered a small smile, squeezing Poland's fingers.

“He's a bastard, right,” Italy whispered.

“Oh, my god,” Poland groaned. “He really is.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some not-so-fun reunions today... still fun to write :)
> 
> Today's playlist is some of my favorite Korean songs:  
Fruity - Hyolyn  
Gashina - Sunmi  
Starry Night - Mamamoo  
Sunny Side Up - Red Velvet  
Thirsty - Girl's Day  
DDD - EXID  
And there was no one left - Dreamcatcher


End file.
